Chapter 11

Eleven

Abigail awakened when the man in the bedroll next to hers stirred.

She came to awareness instantly, but kept her eyes closed.

Hollis.

Their wedding ceremony.

Him presenting her to the company as his wife.

He stirred again, the fabric of his clothes shifting against his bedroll.

She peeked her eyes open. It was early morning, but still dark. The sun hadn't come up.

The campfire that had burned last night several feet in front of her now pulsed dully with its last warm coals. It needed stirring, and feeding, if she was to keep it going for breakfast.

Behind her, she could sense Hollis sitting up in his bedroll with a deep, sleepy inhale.

For a moment, she squeezed her eyes closed again, wanting his arm around her.

The wagon was behind him, their camp on the front edge of the company. When the wagons left their circle later this morning, hers would be second in line.

At another movement behind her, she sat up, working to untangle her feet from the bedroll.

"I didn't mean to wake you," Hollis whispered, his breath on her jaw. He must've bent close to say the words so quietly.

By the time she glanced up, he'd scooted back, a larger shadow against the darkness.

"How late did you come to bed?" she whispered, keenly aware of other travelers only yards away, still asleep. One loud snore possibly belonged to their neighbor, Mr. Schaefer.

She'd lain awake for a long time after the camp had quieted, children's voices had faded, movement had stopped, fires had slowly burned down. She didn't know what time she'd finally drifted off, only that it'd been far past the time when Hollis should've been abed.

His hesitation before he returned a quiet, "Late," told her more than the word itself.

Had he delayed his rest simply because of the arrangement of their bedrolls?

The cool morning air chilled her exposed arms and she drew her shawl out of the bedroll—a trick she'd learned early on the journey, one meant to bring the warmth of her bedroll into the chilly spring mornings—and slipped it around her shoulders.

As she pulled on her boots and made to stand, Hollis protested, "It's early yet. Stay abed."

She shook her head, even though he couldn't see it, and whispered, "I'm already up."

They must've both thought to stir the fire, because she bumped into his brawny shoulder as she crossed right and he moved left. One big hand steadied her waist, dropping away quickly as if the touch had burned him.

After being momentarily frozen, he moved past her to squat near the ashes and embers. One stir with a long stick and hot coals were unearthed, sending warm light to illuminate his stony expression.

She fetched the coffeepot from the back of the wagon, where she'd left it filled with water and ready for the morning.

He'd grown the fire to a small flame that licked and crackled with each new twig he fed it. She joined him at the fire, earning a there-and-gone glance before he returned his attention to the flames. She held the coffeepot, waiting for the fire to burn bigger.

"How are your ribs?" she asked quietly.

A flash of surprise crossed his face, quickly hidden. He twisted his torso in both directions, widening his shoulders and opening his chest as he did. She saw only a tiny tightening of his mouth when he twisted to the left.

"Better. Bruises fading."

The fire was hot enough to start the coffee, so she nudged the pot into the coals at its edge. She was determined to have his breakfast finished before he left camp this morning. She returned to the wagon to mix up another pan of biscuits and rubbed one hand over her cheek in frustration.

"Something the matter?"

She jumped at Hollis's voice from just beside her. She hadn't realized he had come to join her.

"I'm tired of biscuits," she admitted.

"Me too." It was too dark here, with her back turned to the fire, but she imagined that the tenor of his voice meant he'd smiled with one corner of his mouth.

He reached for something inside the wagon. It must've been out of reach, because his side bumped her arm as he shifted, grunted, and strained to get whatever it was he was after. When he moved, he turned, but he turned toward her instead of away, so that her shoulders brushed his chest.

For a single moment, they stayed like that. Close enough that she could smell the soap he must've washed with last night, the man beneath. Close enough that he could tip her chin up—with an abrupt movement, he left, cool air flowing in to the space he'd vacated.

She'd known things would be different between them, especially with the marriage forcing them into closer proximity. But she hadn't expected it would feel so awkward.

If she was feeling this way, he had to be as well. Her thoughts spun as she mixed the biscuits in the dark, formed the dough by touch, wiped sticky fingers on a cloth. When she returned to the fire, he had his logbook tipped toward the flames, using the scant light to read.

She slid the pan of biscuits on a tripod in the fire, where they'd cook, careful to keep her skirts out of the way of a flying spark.

The coffee had warmed, and she carefully poured a cup, moving around the fire to offer it to Hollis. The earthy scent must've overcome his hesitation because he took it with a murmured, "Thank you."

She sat where she could attend the biscuits and watched him in the firelight. The quiet all around them made their interactions seem more intimate.

He glanced up and caught her looking. Stuck one finger in his book. "What?"

"Was... was losing your wife the reason you started leading wagon trains west?"

She'd been wondering ever since he'd revealed his past. She'd lost a parent, but not a spouse. Surely that grief had to run even deeper. Was that what'd sent him on this journey?

"In a way." He stared at the fire.

She was surprised he'd answered her impertinent question.

"After I lost Dinah and the baby, I was lost."

Dinah. Hearing the name knotted Abigail's stomach.

"I couldn't stay in the house where we'd lived. Memories of her haunted every room. Every single thing inside of it was full of pain."

She understood that. She'd been grateful for the job after her mam had passed, but being in the same kitchen where they'd worked side by side was like working with a ghost. She couldn't count the times she'd turned with a word on her lips for her mam. Almost with the shadow of mam in the corner of her eye.

And then she'd remember. Mam was gone. And every time brought a new cut of grief.

"I read a newspaper article about the Oregon Trail, the need for men to guide families along the route. So I came."

There was more behind his words. She was sure of it. "But why not settle?" she pressed. "Why do you keep on?"

He was slow to reply, his words measured and thoughtful. "Making the journey is like a part of my past that keeps calling me. When I was very young, my pa and ma took me and left—they escaped from a slaveholder and ran to the north. I only have snatches of memories from the journey. All that way on foot, with nothing to their names," he shook his head, eyes distant. "My pa never spoke of it, but sometimes, even when I was grown, he'd watch over his shoulder with a haunted expression." He shifted slightly. "The only things I remember are running down a dirt-packed road in the night and a belly so empty, a hunger so deep?—"

He snapped himself out of the memory and sipped his coffee. "Part of me still carries that. Will always carry those memories."

A silence unfolded as his story settled between them. He'd shared not only the words, but a deeper vulnerability. She barely breathed, not wanting to ruin the moment.

He went on, "I didn't plan on taking the journey more than once. But I realized folks needed someone and that I could do it."

"You're a good leader." The praise slipped past her lips easily, because it was true.

His eyes went downcast and he hid his face behind another sip of coffee.

Another question had been wearing at her ever since he'd mentioned his late wife.

"What was she like?" she whispered, unsure she actually wanted to hear the answer.

He stared over the fire now, his gaze far off. "She was... stately. There was a refinement about her, no matter what menial task she might be doing." His voice went husky as he spoke these words.

Abigail glanced at her palms in the flickering firelight. She certainly wasn't elegant. She had the hands of someone who worked in the kitchen—calloused, with scars from nicks that'd healed over and old burns.

As if he'd noticed her looking, Hollis said, "She had her own scars. She came from a free family, but they'd been driven out of the town where she'd grown up. There was a mark, just here." He indicated a spot at the left side of his jaw. "She'd been struck by a rock thrown by a man who hated her family simply for the color of their skin." He blinked, and tipped his head. "You've never met a woman so determined." His eyes flashed to Abigail and away again. He went quiet.

"My mam was like that," Abigail shared. She smoothed invisible lines in her skirt as the sun began to lighten the sky. "Determined. She taught me to keep on, keep smiling. Keep singing. Even when she was sacked without cause, she kept singing."

The first silver from the rising sun crested the horizon and Abigail blinked in the light, hiding the moisture of unexpected tears. She sensed Hollis watching her and averted her face as she knelt on the ground near the fire. She used her apron to protect her hand as she pulled the biscuit tin from the fire. She'd overcooked one side. They were dark brown instead of pale gold.

Abigail remembered Hollis's words when he'd announced to the company that she was his wife. He'd called her optimistic. But Abigail wasn't like Mam. Abigail's joyful spirit was a mask. Every moment out here in the wild was a moment of fear. Fear that she'd lose everything she held dear. But she couldn't admit that to him.

"I think Dinah would've liked you," he said quietly.

When she straightened from the fire, he had already ducked his head.

Her stomach twisted. Dinah would've liked her. But Hollis didn't.

She went to the wagon to plate some of the biscuits for Hollis, grateful for the moment to turn her back. She was the one who'd prompted the conversation, asked about his wife. But she hadn't expected to feel the well of emptiness that came with the discovery of how deeply Hollis had loved her.

Hollis ate the biscuits, part of him realizing the delicious taste while the bigger part of him tasted only ash. He tracked August as the man walked into the circle of wagons after a shift on watch.

August caught his stare and shook his head. Still no sign of any man riding alone.

Disappointment surged. Hollis wished he could know whether the man he'd met in the wildfire and storm had been following the company. Or had he been a lone traveler, worried for his own survival? It bothered Hollis that no one else had seen any sign of him.

A few others from the company were stirring, but most of the camp slept on. The sun was rising over the eastern horizon, a ball of fire. Folks were tired. They needed the rest, though Hollis hoped to make twenty miles today.

Abigail puttered around the wagon, keeping her back to him. He felt like his insides were on fire. He hadn't realized until he'd dredged up the memories how much he'd forgotten about Dinah. The loss felt fresh all over again. Five years ago, he'd forced himself to forget, pushing through the dangerous overland journeys, working like a dog until all he could do was drop into his bedroll at night. Too tired to cry, to face the grief that had dogged his every step.

Now he couldn't find a clear memory of Dinah's smile. Every time he pushed, his traitorous mind brought a flash of Abigail's wide, happy grin and bright eyes.

Grief flared, hot and bright. He'd longed to have that family with Dinah. Longed for their baby to arrive, not knowing that would be the end of everything good for him. After awhile, he couldn't face his parents, the shared grief too much to bear.

Abigail moved behind the wagon. He still felt the awkwardness of waking up next to her—of bumping into her in the semi-darkness. In camp, everything was different from their mornings together in the wild.

He wanted to pull her closer, wanted her in his arms again.

He wanted to be across camp. Away from her.

Now was his chance. The sun was up, which meant he could get to work.

He returned the tin plate she'd given him to the wagon. She was tying off a strap where one of the pails hung along side.

"Better'n my ma's biscuits," he said. "Thank you."

She glanced his way in surprise. "Is your mother still living?"

He swallowed a sudden hot knot in his throat at the mention of his mama and nodded. "Far as I know. My pa owns a livery back East. My brothers and sister live there too. Or they did when I first came West. One of my brothers might've come West."

Her brows crinkled. "You don't know?" A hint of censure in her voice.

"I left before he reached Independence."

There was a bit of judgment in the sideways glance she sent him. "I can't wait to see Joseph. It's difficult when letters take forever to find each other—or they don't at all."

"I haven't written them since I left." Why had he admitted that?

Her sharp look was an echo of the guilt he felt.

"Whyever not?"

It was too difficult to find the words. To admit out loud to something he'd only admitted to himself. Especially to someone as joyful as Abigail.

"I've known for a long time that I'll end up alone." It was easier to say it if he didn't look at her, so he didn't. It was better that she knew why they couldn't make a real go of this marriage.

He watched the horizon, watched a little jut of rocks where a hill rose in the distance. And he caught sight of a glint of light.

Something man-made. It couldn't be natural, the flash, pause, flash of light.

The sun was reflecting off of a pair of field glasses.

His body reacted before he could think anything through. He left Abigail without a word, heading for his horse picketed outside the line of wagons. He didn't take his eyes off that place against the hill, though the flashing had stopped.

There was someone out there. Maybe the same man who'd attacked him.

His heart raced, pulse pounding in his temples as he quickly saddled his horse and put on the bridle. He made sure his rifle was strapped into place, felt for the gun belt at his side.

Whoever was out there had been looking straight toward their camp. There couldn't be any good reason for that. Why not approach the wagon train and state your business?

Unless your business was nefarious.

Finally in the saddle, Hollis took off. The man who'd attacked him wouldn't get a second chance. It wasn't a matter of pride. Hollis had the wagon train to protect.

He kept his eyes wide open, one hand on his rifle stock, and slowed his horse as he neared the place the flash had come from. Dark rocks rose from the prairie, and bushes and brush would give a man ample places to hide. Awareness sent gooseflesh skittering up the back of his neck, but even when he strained his ears, Hollis couldn't hear a sound other than his own harsh breaths.

Where had the man gone?

He searched for several minutes, until a familiar voice hailed, "Hollis!"

Owen approached on horseback from the same direction Hollis had come. The sun was up now, faint, high clouds scuttling across the sky with the dry wind. Easy enough to see his captain's frown as his horse picked its way over the terrain.

When Owen was close, Hollis, still on his horse, pointed to a mark in a sandy drift. "That look like a hoof print to you?"

Owen squinted. "Maybe?" His frown grew as his eyes scanned Hollis. "What're you doing out here?"

He sounded almost accusing. Hollis bristled. "I saw light flashing. Reflecting off field glasses, most like."

Owen glanced around, eyes skeptical. "You sure about that?"

Hollis didn't know why the man questioned him. He didn't have time for games. The company needed to move out soon, and he needed to find whoever'd been out here. But when he tried to move his horse, Owen blocked him with his mount.

"Move," Hollis ordered.

"Abigail told me you high-tailed it outta camp awhile ago. You find any sign of anyone out here?"

Hollis didn't have to answer to Owen. He was the wagonmaster. He narrowed his eyes at his captain. "Is there something you want to say?"

"We need your leadership in camp." Owen said the words with a tightness to his jaw. "You're distracted."

There was something else there, something he wasn't saying. Hollis's horse sidestepped, sensitive to the tension between the two men.

"Ever since you and Abigail got back, you've been preoccupied."

Did he mean by Abigail? "You're the one who pushed for me to marry her," he growled.

Things would be a lot less muddled if Abigail wasn't in the mix.

"It's more than that," Owen said. Color had risen high in his cheeks, and Hollis felt his own temper flare.

"You need to say something, say it," Hollis said.

"August told me there were holes in your memory before you and Abigail got washed away in the river."

The words battered Hollis like a blow. The head injury he'd received when the twister had struck had far-reaching repercussions—one of which was Hollis's short term memory that'd been hit or miss.

It hadn't bothered him since he and Abigail had woken up from those poisonous berries. He hadn't even had to think about it. But August had remembered what Hollis had told him in confidence—though he'd had no choice. And August had told his brother.

Betrayal sparked Hollis's temper to a flame.

"My memory is fine now." He gritted out the words.

"Is it?" Owen challenged. "Because two days ago, August went back to where you claimed to be attacked and there was nothing there. Now this," he gestured around them. "There's nothing here. You imagined those flashes out here."

Behind the betrayal and anger burning a hole in his gut was a tiny voice asking if the other man was right. What if Hollis had hallucinated this morning? Or seen a natural trick of the light? Some reflection off the rock face.

No. He was certain of what he'd seen.

"Out of all the men in this company, I didn't think it'd be you who turned against me."

A muscle in Owen's jaw jumped. "I'm not against you?—"

"But you think you'd make a better leader."

Owen rolled his shoulders. "August and I have made this journey together. The company needs stability."

And Hollis couldn't give them that, his words implied.

"I'm still the leader of this company," Hollis said. "Whether you like it or not."

Owen wheeled his mount and rode off without another word, leaving Hollis to another quick scan of the terrain. With his thoughts whirling, anger stirred up, he couldn't concentrate.

Whoever was out here had covered his tracks too well. There was no sign of him, even for a seasoned tracker like Hollis. And with his gut churning with betrayal, he couldn't focus enough to see any small sign.

Owen was a strong leader. It was why Hollis counted on him to be one of the captains. Folks listened when Owen talked. But if Owen started talking mutiny, or about splitting off, that might lead to disaster.

He couldn't let that happen.