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.
They sat on the porch swing outside her parents’ house. Spring had arrived and with it the promise of good things to come. She’d learned a new song, “The Yellow Rose of Texas,” and wanted him to learn it, too.
They’d laughed often as he stumbled over the words, happy simply to be with her and able to be outside, away from her mother’s constant supervision. How wrong he’d been in thinking Abby shared his feelings.
He escaped the wagons and went out among the cattle. Let people think he was watching them, but in reality he wanted only to forget the bittersweet memory.
But it followed on his heels reminding him how he’d deliberately mixed up the words which sent her into gales of laughter. He’d caught her by the shoulders and shook her a little in mock scolding. Their eyes had locked together. He’d tipped his head low and rested his forehead on hers, breathing in the scent of her. Lavender and things that had no origin in smells but came from a knowledge of her—sweetness, stubbornness, humor, kindness. He’d closed his eyes, thinking how precious she’d grown over the winter months.
It was all a farce. He was only cheap entertainment for the time being.
His stride lengthened as he tried to flee that memory. He forced his thoughts to the ending. Father’s successful mercantile business had faltered. He’d suffered under the strain and had a stroke. And Abigail had turned her back on him and married Frank.
His pace slowed. The sound of the mandolin followed him. He loved her music still. Always would, he supposed, even if the memories were intertwined with pain and regret. It seemed she was still under her mother’s watch. How had Frank dealt with that? Not that Ben cared. Not a bit.
Slowly he made his way back to the wagons. Abby’s music had enticed some of the men to dance jigs and the children to twirl about.
Then she slowed the tunes and began to sing songs of gladness and hope. The children gathered round her. Men leaned against the wagons and women rocked their little ones.
But Ben remained at the far end, content to watch. He realized he stared at Abby with an intensity that belied how he meant to forget everything about her and he shifted his gaze to take in those around him.
Miles Cavanaugh nodded at him. He remained at his wagon. He traveled alone and perhaps felt as if he wasn’t a part of the social gathering. Ben couldn’t say, though, as he knew little about the man. He would certainly learn more about him as they traveled together.
A little further along, he detected another lone figure. Clarence Pressman—a smallish man with pale skin like he hadn’t spent any time outdoors. Ben had noted the man before and was grateful he’d signed on with the Morrisons. Both parties would benefit from the arrangement.
The Tucker brothers, Amos and Grant—twins, Ben had been told though they didn’t look a bit alike—crossed the tongue of a wagon and joined those gathered around Abby. No doubt they’d been out checking on the animals. The pair had joined them part way through the day, driving their oxen at a rate that had the animals sweating and snorting.
Amos introduced them. “We got behind the cattle train by mistake. Took us some hard going to catch up to this group.” They’d nudged each other and laughed like the mistake was a huge joke.
Ben couldn’t help but like their attitude but he hoped they’d be better at following instructions in the future.
His study brought him back to Abby. And the memory of sitting on the porch swing rushed again to the forefront.
Why must sweet memories be clouded by sorrow?
But they were and he couldn’t change that.
He didn’t have any doubt that Abby’s memories were also clouded with sadness. Oh, not over him. But over the death of her husband.
He ground his fist into the soft spot beneath his ribs but it did nothing to ease the pain lodged there. He didn’t wish for anyone to deal with such grief. He’d seen how deeply it had affected Grayson, driving him away from the family.
Ben missed him every day of his absence and anticipated their reunion.
All too soon the mothers called their children to them and prepared them for bed. While Abby had entertained the children, the menfolk had set up tents next to their wagons where their families would sleep.
Emma had prepared the tent she and Rachel would share. He’d sleep under a piece of canvas or just roll up in a bedroll under the wagon.
Abby and her father struggled to put up their tents. It appeared the older Binghams would share one tent and Abby would sleep in another.
After watching their vain attempts for a few minutes, Ben trotted over to assist.
“We can manage just fine, thank you,” Mrs. Bingham told him, though she didn’t lift a finger to help.
“I can’t quite figure it out,” Mr. Bingham said as if his wife hadn’t uttered a word.
“Here. Take this rope and stake it out there about three feet. Be sure and angle the stake away from the tension so it stays in the ground.”
In a few minutes, the tent was up. Mr. Bingham assisted his wife inside. Ben turned to Abby. His first instinct was to offer her help. But the knot in his heart warned him to give her a wide berth.
She grabbed a hammer and stake. “I watched you and Father. I think I can do it.”
He’d watch for a moment then leave her be.
She drove in the first stake
