this in no time.”
“I’ll never get used to it.” Mother brushed a blade of grass from her skirt. “It’s dirty and primitive.” She sniffed. “But I don’t intend to likewise be uncouth. Fix my hair and then fetch me some water so I can wash properly. And heavens, see that I get some proper food.”
Abby spoke soothingly as she did her mother’s hair. “Mother, how many times have you told me that a person must set their mind to do what needed to be done and then do it?” Of course, her mother had usually been talking about setting a proper table, or returning an unwelcome visit, but it surely applied here even more.
Mother sniffed. “About as many times as I told you if you made wise choices you wouldn’t have to live with unpleasant consequences.”
Abby chuckled softly, lest her mother fear she laughed at her. But it was amusing, ironic really, that this was the argument she’d used to convince Abby to marry Frank and the consequences had been horrible.
“This, I fear, is an unwise choice and the consequences will be most unpleasant.”
Abby ignored the dire tone of her mother’s words and managed not to shiver. If only Mother would stop making it sound as if they would regret this trip. She finished her mother’s hair. “Mother, the future beckons. We can make it as good or as awful as we choose.”
Abby meant to make the most of it. In Oregon, she would gain her freedom. Somehow she’d convince Mother to let her go so she could follow her heart.
She thought immediately of Ben. But that wasn’t what she had in mind. He was of her past and she meant to put her past—all of it—behind her and start fresh. Wouldn’t Mother be shocked if she knew the things Abby planned?
She crawled from the tent to get water for Mother.
Rachel frowned at her.
Abby looked about to see the reason. Sally tended a skillet of bacon with little Johnny perched on her hip. The baby sobbed softly. Emma checked the coffeepot. Abby knew from the aroma that it had boiled. Rachel stirred a pot of simmering cornmeal mush. A pitcher of milk perched nearby. Abby wondered who had milked the cow.
Abby’s heart sank. She should be helping. Her mother should be helping. Knowing her mother wouldn’t meant Abby should be doing enough for both of them. Instead, the others had prepared breakfast while Abby fussed over her mother.
It wouldn’t happen again. If she must tend Mother she’d do it before time to prepare food or make her mother wait until after the meal. Abby ducked her head lest anyone think she smiled because she’d arranged to miss breakfast. No, her amusement came from imagining Mother being told to wait to have her needs tended to.
Abby glanced about again. She didn’t know how to milk the cow, make the mush or most everything the others did. She vowed she’d learn just as she’d learn to ignore Ben, and the memories that came with his presence.
She looked about, didn’t see him and let out a sigh. Easier to ignore him when he wasn’t there.
Smiling at her private joke, she hurried to take the water to Mother, then rushed back to offer assistance to the other women. “I’ll wash up seeing as I was absent for preparing the meal.”
Sally patted her hand. “We work together as best we can.”
As best we can. At least Sally seemed to understand.
One glance at Rachel and Abby knew she wouldn’t be so accommodating.
“We all need to do our share.” Rachel’s words shot from her mouth.
Rachel would not hesitate to criticize Abby’s failures. Never mind. They’d all learn things on this journey. Even the efficient Miss Hewitt.
* * *
Ben stood outside the circle of wagons. He’d been there several minutes. Long enough to hear Abby talking to her mother. The future beckoned. What did she mean? Had she agreed to marry a rich man in Oregon?
He knew such arrangements weren’t uncommon. He had to look no further than the letter from Grayson for evidence. Grayson had suggested his widowed neighbor would be a good match for Emma. His three little girls needed a new mother. Emma had nodded when she read the letter. “I could look after them.” Emma could do most anything she set her mind to. She’d volunteered at the local orphanage for a time after their father’s death and had, according to all reports, been an excellent help with the children. Not that it surprised Ben.
Ben snickered as he recalled Rachel’s reaction. “You’ve spent five years nursing our father. Now you’re willing to play nursemaid to a bunch of little girls you don’t even know? Emma, when will you stop being so compliant?”
Emma had given one of her sweet, forgiving smiles. “I’m twenty-four years old. I’ve long ago given up hopes of romance. I’ll settle for safety and security.”
Ben wished he knew what to say to encourage his beautiful blonde sister.
Rachel had thrown her hands in the air. “I will never settle.”
Ben heard Abby speak again, bringing his thoughts back to the present. Did she have a suitor waiting for her in Oregon? Seems like it would explain why they were willing to cross the country.
Martin Littleton joined him. “Smells like breakfast is ready.”
“Indeed.” Mr. Bingham arrived and they joined the women around the campfire.
Ben stood, hat in hand. “I’ll ask the blessing this morning. Then why don’t we take turns doing it?”
The men nodded.
“Lord, we thank You for strength, for good weather, for good company and for good food. Keep us safe this day and to our journey’s end. Amen.”
The others echoed his amen as he sat between his sisters.
The coffee was hot and strong. The biscuits cold and dry. The cornmeal mush filling. The Littletons’ cow provided them with fresh milk. But the mood felt strained.
Mrs. Bingham perched on her upright chair and picked at the food. She uttered not a word, but her lengthy sighs said plenty.
Ben had overheard Rachel’s comment to Abby and knew she was annoyed. The last thing anyone on this journey needed was friction but there was little he could do about it without adding fuel to the fire. The women would have to sort things out among themselves.
The Littletons passed little Johnny back and forth between them and tried to calm his fussing.
“I simply don’t know what’s wrong with him.” Sally gave the group an apologetic glance. “He’s not normally like this.”
“Perhaps he’s ill,” Mrs. Bingham said as matter-of-factly as if she’d mentioned the weather and seemed not to be aware that she’d sent a shock wave around the circle.
Martin grabbed his son and pressed his hand to the little forehead. “He’s not fevered.”
Sally hovered over the pair. “If he’s sick— But Emma looked at his wound and said it was fine.”
