Benjamin Hewitt stared. It wasn’t possible.
He blinked to clear his vision. If the man struggling with his oxen didn’t look like Abigail’s father, he didn’t know a cow from a chicken. But it couldn’t be Mr. Bingham. He would never subject himself and his wife to the trials of this journey. Why Mrs. Bingham would look mighty strange fluttering a lace hankie and expecting someone to serve her tea in a covered wagon.
The man must have given the wrong command because the oxen jerked hard to the right, yanking the wagon after them. The rear wheel broke free and wobbled across the ground, coming to rest against another wagon. The first wagon leaned drunkenly on one corner. A chest toppled out the back, followed by a wooden table. When it hit the ground the legs snapped and flew in four different directions. A woman followed amid a cascade of smaller items, shrieking, her arms flailing. Ben chuckled. She looked like a chicken trying to fly and she landed with a startled squawk on pillows and bedding.
Ben’s amusement ended abruptly. He liked the idea of moving West but there had been times he felt as out of control as that woman.
“Mother, are you injured?” A young woman ran toward her mother. Making the comparison sparked by the wagon driver worse, she even sounded just like Abigail. At least as near as he could recall. He’d succeeded in putting that young woman from his mind many years ago.
She glanced about. “Father, are you safe?”
The sun glowed in her blond hair and he knew, though he couldn’t see her face, that it was Abigail. What was she doing here? She’d not find a fine, big house nor fancy dishes and certainly no servants on this trip.
The bitterness he’d once felt at being rejected because he couldn’t provide those things had dissipated, leaving only regret and caution.
She helped her mother to her feet and dusted her skirts off. All the while, the woman—Mrs. Bingham, to be sure—complained, her voice grating with displeasure that made Ben’s nerves twitch. He knew that sound all too well. Could recall in sharp detail when the woman had told him he was not a suitable suitor for her daughter. Abigail had told him, with the same harsh dismissive tone, she would no longer see him, after a year and eight months of seeing each other regularly and talking of a shared future.
It all seemed so long ago. He’d been a different person six years back. Only twenty years old, he’d considered himself mature and ready to start life with a wife and home of his own. He had been full of trust and optimism.
Thanks to Abigail, he’d learned not to trust everything a woman said. Nor believe how they acted. Maybe he should thank her for that. Except he no longer cared enough to want to engage her in conversation.
Binghams or not, a wheel needed to be put on. Ben joined the men hurrying to assist the unfortunate fellow.
“Hello.” He greeted Mr. Bingham and the man shook his hand. “Ladies.” He tipped his hat to them.
“Hello, Ben.” Abigail Bingham stood at her mother’s side. No, not Bingham. She was Abigail Black now.
Ben darted a glance around. Where was Frank Black? No doubt off spouting his opinions to one and all about everything and nothing. Ben never could see why Abigail would marry the man, though he knew well the reasons. Ben’s family had lost their money in the Panic of 1837. Frank Black had not.
He turned his attention to getting the wheel in place. Several men groaned as they tried to lift the heavily-laden wagon.
“Over here.” Ben waved to get the attention of half a dozen more and they lifted the wagon enough for the wheel to be put on again.
“The bolts need to be good and tight.” He’d been elected as one of the nine committeemen and his task was to inspect every wagon in this section of the assembled group to make sure it was ready for the journey.
Mr. Bingham applied a wrench to the bolts. “I thought they were tight.”
“Let me.” Ben held out his hand and Mr. Bingham gave him the wrench. Ben turned each bolt a half turn. “Surprised to see you headed for Oregon.”
“The economy here isn’t what it used to be. I hear it’s booming in Oregon. The land of opportunity, I’m told.”
“Uh-huh.” He checked the other wheels. To his right, Abigail and her mother gathered together their scattered belongings.
“Mother, the table is ruined. Leave it behind.”
“My own mother gave me that table. What would she think of this?” Mrs. Bingham clutched a splintered leg. “I’m grateful she hasn’t lived to see this day.” She tossed aside the leg and stared at the wagon. “How can your father expect us to live in this cramped space? This trip will be the death of me.”
“Mother, don’t say that. Besides, think of the opportunities in Oregon. A new society will need women with high standards to guide it.”
Mrs. Bingham sniffed. “That’s so I suppose.” Her voice rose a degree. “But why must we crowd into one wagon?”
Mrs. Bingham and her daughter had not changed. They still measured every situation as a means to further their place in society.
He thought a person should be measured by their worth. This trip from Independence, Missouri to Oregon would be four to six months long over mostly unmapped territory. It would test all of them. Reveal their worth. Perhaps change many. Or it might destroy people unprepared for the challenges of the trail. People like the Binghams. Checking the wagons was one way Ben could ensure everyone made the trip safely.
He turned to Abigail. “Why don’t I look at your wagon next?”
Her mouth dropped open.
Mrs. Bingham’s lips pursed tight.
“She’s traveling with us.” Mr. Bingham spoke softly at Ben’s side. “I guess you didn’t hear that Frank died six months ago.”
Frank dead? She was a widow? The words blared through Ben’s head but he couldn’t take them in.
“I’m sorry.” He managed to get the words out, then hurried to the next wagon. His heart went out to her. He knew what it was like to lose people you were close to. But apart from that, her situation didn’t mean a thing to him.
The noise of the gathered crowd assaulted his eardrums. Tin plates rattled as the women washed dishes. Babies wailed. How were the little ones going to endure the trip? Hopefully the moving wagons would lull them to sleep.
Five excited young fellas were shooting their pistols into the air and shouting—young men, thirteen to fifteen likely, on the cusp of adulthood.
“Oregon here we come.”
“I’m gonna get me a buffalo.”
“I’m gonna fight a bear.”
Someone should warn them they should save their bullets for bears and buffalos. But he understood the excitement that almost crazed them.
A child screamed.
“You shot my baby,” a woman screeched.
Ben straightened to see a little one in his mother’s arms, a dark-haired little boy of about a year, if he didn’t miss his guess. Blood stained both their clothes.
Women picked up their skirts and ran toward the pair. Abigail was among the first to reach them and knelt at the woman’s side. “Let me see him.”
She eased the woman’s fingers from her son’s side and lifted the little shirt. She glanced toward Ben.
Across the space her gaze found his. “It’s just a graze but he needs it tended to.” She obviously meant for him to take care of the problem. Did she see him as a man she could order around? He should inform her that he was one of the committeemen and as such, had some authority. He didn’t intend to jump at her command.
But