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Special thanks and acknowledgment to Linda Ford for her contribution to the Journey West miniseries.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Bible Verse

Dedication

Acknowledgment

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Dear Reader

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Independence, Missouri May 1843

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 her opinion didn’t matter because a child was injured and he knew who could help.

Ben grabbed the nearest man. “Go back to the wagon at the corner. Ask for Emma Hewitt. Tell her to bring her medical supplies.”

The man took off like a shot.

Ben pushed through the crowd of women to Abigail’s side. He spied a clean diaper and grabbed it. “Press this to the wound until my sister arrives.”

He looked around for the youths who were responsible.

They saw him and began to slink away.

“Hold up there.” He strode toward them.

Forced to face him, all but one of them put on defiant faces. “We ain’t done nothin’ wrong,” one said.

“You could have killed a child and you don’t think there’s any reason to be apologizing?”

“I’m sorry, mister,” said the only repentant one.

“Glad to hear it, though it’s not me you should be apologizing to.”

The boy took a step toward the bleeding child.

Ben caught his shoulder. “Hold on a minute. What’s your name?”

“Jed. Jed Henshaw.”

Ben would be remembering Jed. A lad willing to admit his wrongs could prove to be an asset in the months ahead. He held out his hand. “I’ll take those firearms before someone else is hurt.”

Jed immediately dropped his gun into Ben’s hand.

“My pa ain’t gonna be very happy with me.” He hung his head.

The four others grunted and shuffled their feet but did not offer up their guns. The biggest, loudest, most belligerent of them spoke. “You ain’t gonna take my gun.”

For answer, Ben reached out and wrenched it from his hand. He reached for the others and they were released grudgingly.

“Here now, what do you think you’re doing?” A big man edged between Ben and the boys. “You ain’t gonna take my son’s gun.”

A crowd of men pressed close arguing about whether or not the boys should be allowed to retain their firearms.

“A baby was shot,” Ben pointed out, but others said each male old enough to carry a gun should do so in case of some kind of attack. Ben pushed aside the big man crowding him and realized he was every bit as big. The man moved despite his attempt to stay planted. He addressed the boys. “I’d like your names.” Only Jed had told Ben his name.

Three gave theirs, but the fourth only scowled.

“You don’t need to tell him,” the man at Ben’s side shouted.

Ben cringed as the noise swelled. “There’ll be a meeting of the committeemen at noon. Attend it and make your case. We’ll all abide by the ruling as to whether or not you get your guns back.”

Jed left the raucous crowd and broke through the cluster of women around the injured baby.

“Ma’am.” He addressed the woman holding her baby. “I am truly sorry for behaving so foolishly. I hope your little boy will be okay.”

Half the murmurs were accepting, half condemning.

At that moment, Emma rushed up with Rachel at her side. They made their way through the ladies and Emma dropped her bag and knelt to examine the injured child.

“It’s only a flesh wound. It needs to be kept clean and covered.” She sat back and glanced around. She saw Abigail at her side and gaped.

“Hello, Emma, Rachel.” Abigail nodded toward the sisters.

“You’re traveling with us?” Rachel asked. She stared at Abby. “Why on earth are you on this wagon train? Doesn’t your husband’s business keep you in the manner you prefer?”

“My husband is dead.” Abigail kept her voice low but even so the women watched and listened curiously. “I am traveling with my parents.” She nodded toward them. Her mother sat in a high-backed chair perched on the ground beside their wagon, her back rigid, disapproval written in every line of her face. Mr. Bingham stood at his oxen, looking like he was having second thoughts about this journey.

Emma hid her surprise better, focusing on the injured baby. She leaned back on her heels as if thinking what to do. If it had been a man injured, she might have cleansed the wound with alcohol, but knowing how much it hurt, he understood she was considering other possibilities.

Finally she turned to Rachel. “Would you bring me some warm water and a clean cloth?”

Rachel hurried to the nearest fire where a kettle of water stood and poured a little into a bowl. She glanced about for a cloth.

One of the women reached into her wagon and pulled out a square of pure white. “For the little one yet to come.” She patted her stomach.

Rachel hustled the items over to Emma who carefully sponged the area then wrapped a dressing over the wound. “Keep it clean.” She would be worried about infection. Emma grasped the mother’s hands. “I’d like to pray for the baby. What’s his name?”

The baby stuck his thumb in his mouth and clung to his mother.

“His name is Johnny. I’m Sally Littleton. And I thank you.” She squeezed Emma’s hands. Then they bowed their heads.

The women circling them also bowed their heads and Ben and the men removed their hats.

“Our Father in heaven, thank you for sparing Johnny’s life. And grant our deepest desire that he recover from this wound with no ill effects. Amen.” Emma opened her eyes and patted little Johnny’s back. She straightened.

All this time, Abby sat beside Mrs. Littleton, one arm wrapped about the woman’s shoulders, comforting her.

A man rushed up. “I heard my son was shot.” He threw his hat on the ground and knelt before his wife. He ran his hands over the baby. “Is he...is he?”

Mrs. Littleton pressed her palms to her husband’s cheeks. “It was only a flesh wound. Miss Hewitt tended it.”

“Thank you. Thank you.” He shook hands with everyone around him and introductions were made. “Thank God. Johnny is all we have left. Our other three died of swamp fever last year.”

Ben’s throat tightened. So many bore the pain of loss yet faced the great adventure full of hopes and dreams. Ben and his sisters, Emma and Rachel, shared the excitement. They’d eagerly sold the ranch and most of their possessions, bought three teams of oxen, outfitted their wagon with enough supplies to carry them across the continent to Oregon where they’d join their brother, Grayson. Grayson had gone out two years ago to escape the memory of his young wife’s death in childbirth. He wrote often, urging his siblings to join him and for Ben to consider working at his store. After the death of their father late last year, they made plans to do so. Ben would do his best to see that everyone else on the train made the trip safely, as well.

As he continued inspecting the wagons in the section he’d been assigned, he overheard bits and pieces of conversation.

New beginning. Fresh start. Opportunity. The final word rang throughout most of the conversations. It was the promise that filled them all with hope and determination. For a new beginning almost a thousand people were prepared to face the dangers this journey held.

Soon he was again engulfed by the noise of the camp as he went from wagon to wagon. Men yelled at oxen. Women shouted at children who raced about excitedly. Metal rang on metal as wagon wheels were prepared for the journey. Over it all hung the smell of hundreds of animals.

The poor oxen had to endure inexperienced men ordering them every which way without any real idea of how to direct the animals. Ben had taken the time to instruct both his sisters on how to drive their oxen. He planned to drive most of the time, though being one of the committeemen might necessitate he ride his horse along the wagon train to help convey instructions down the line.

He assessed those he was destined to travel with. An assorted lot to be sure. Many wore the clothes and had the markings of farmers. Others, like Mr. Bingham, appeared to be businessmen hoping for better times. There were small groups traveling together but most of the emigrants were meeting each other for the first time. There’d be plenty of friction as strangers were forced to learn to work together.

It was almost noon before he finished and returned to the wagon where his sisters waited with the meal ready.

Rachel looked ready to burst as he washed his hands and filled his plate. “I’ll ask the blessing,” he said, ignoring her impatience, and bowed his head. His amen was barely out before she spoke.

“I can’t believe the Binghams are on this wagon train. How are you going to avoid running into her?”

He pretended not to understand what she meant even though he knew she referred to the relationship he and Abby had enjoyed back then. “There’s a lot of people traveling together. We don’t have to keep company with any we don’t choose to.” He said it as if that solved the entire problem of encountering Abby and he intended it should.

Rachel sighed. “I just don’t want to see your heart broken again.”

“It’s not going to happen.” Never again would he give Abigail the right to hurt him. He would do his best to keep a wide distance between himself and Abigail. Two thousand miles over several months lay ahead of them. But all he had to do was avoid her one day at a time.

Surely that wasn’t impossible.

* * *

“Please stay with me,” Mrs. Littleton said to Abby as her husband left to attend to other business. “I’m afraid to be alone at the moment.”

“Of course.” Abby sat beside her on a quilt. The blond-haired woman’s blue eyes were friendly and welcoming. Her dress was well-worn but clean.

“You have a sweet baby. How old is he?”

“He’s just a year old.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your other children.”

Mrs. Littleton bent over her son, caressing his brown hair. His brown eyes closed slowly and he slept. “Life can be hard at times.” She looked into the distance. “I hope we can start over in Oregon without so many painful memories.”

“That is my hope, as well, Mrs. Littleton.” Losing her husband had necessitated her move back to her parents’ home. But it didn’t pain her the way losing her twin brother Andy had. That pain never went away but she had learned to let it sweep through her. It would then settle back into a steady ache. Perhaps in Oregon she could think of Andy without the pulsing pain and regret.

She hoped for more than freedom from her past with this trip. It was her chance for a new beginning. She had her private plans. When they reached Oregon, she meant to go her own way. She’d work until she saved enough money to set herself up in business. Perhaps she’d run a boardinghouse. All that mattered was she’d never again depend on someone else. But Mother had other plans...plans that involved marrying in such a way as to improve the social and financial status of the Binghams. Abby hadn’t informed her mother yet, but she would not marry again. To her sorrow and regret she had learned a lesson about marriage that she didn’t care to repeat.

Strange to see Ben on the wagon train. She hadn’t seen him since she ended their relationship six years before. His light brown hair had been tamed some. Only one wave dipped over his forehead. He’d filled out, too, so his six-foot frame seemed all muscle and power. Even his blue-gray eyes had grown serious.

His expression when he looked her way contained only the cool disinterest of a stranger.

Not that she could blame him. Six years ago, she’d dismissed him harshly because she knew no other way to end a relationship that held so much promise. She’d balked at the idea of marrying Frank. Begged her mother to allow her to marry Ben, the man she loved. But Mother had reminded her of her promise to take care of her parents and pointed out that Ben couldn’t possibly provide for her and them. Nor could he offer a way of advancing them socially. His father’s mercantile business had floundered in the depressed economy.

Mrs. Littleton turned to look into Abby’s face. “You’ve had your losses, too, I can tell.”

Abby’s mind flooded with sorrow as she recalled kneeling beside Andy’s lifeless body. He was but fourteen years old. If only she had spoken up and asked Andy not to ride that high-spirited horse. Instead, she had bragged to the snobby Isabelle that her brother could ride any horse they found. She had been wrong. She’d never told Mother or Father of her responsibility in Andy’s death. Her sorrow and guilt had led her to promise Mother to take care of them. In her mind, she hoped she could replace Andy, become the one Mother counted on.

“My condolences over your husband’s death.”

Of course Mrs. Littleton meant Frank, but Abby could not find it in her heart to feel sorrow at his passing. Yes, it left her penniless and back home under her mother’s rule, but it freed her from Frank’s cruelty. She shuddered. She’d never told her parents what marriage to Frank had been like.

Mother had seen him as the key to a promising future for the Binghams and when Abby protested over his offer of marriage, Mother had reminded her of her promise.

“Marrying well is the best way you can help us,” Mother had insisted as they discussed Frank.

“But I don’t love him.” Her throat still tightened as she thought of that day. If only her promise didn’t bind her to do her mother’s bidding.

“Love is a luxury few of us can afford.”

“But you love Father, don’t you?”

“I’m happy with our arrangement.”

Abby realized later that love was nothing but a flight of fancy. But at the time she still believed in it.

Out of guilt and duty, and a desire to please her parents, she’d obeyed her mother and married Frank. To be fair, he’d been attentive and gentle when courting her.

That had ended the day of their wedding.

Mrs. Littleton patted her arm. “A new beginning will be good for all of us. And please call me Sally.”

“I’m Abigail or Abby to my friends.”

Sally chuckled. “Then I’ll call you Abby.”

Abby glanced at her mother still sitting nearby on her wooden chair. No mistaking the disapproving scowl. She sighed. She tried, oh, how she tried, to please Mother, but nothing ever seemed enough. Why, mother had even hinted that it was Abby’s fault that Frank had died penniless. His grave had barely been covered over when agents from the bank had come and carried away everything but her personal belongings and had given her three days to leave the house. The harsh truth about her husband had been reinforced yet again. Not only was he cruel behind the closed doors of their home, he was foolish in business. She’d gone back to her parents’ home. Where else could she go? Though it had reduced her to striving for her mother’s approval and always falling short.

Mother would never let her forget her promise.

She remained convinced that Andy would have fulfilled all her dreams of advancement. And now she expected Abby to be the means.

“You’ll need to find a suitable suitor soon,” she’d been saying since they made plans to head West. “In Oregon, there are far more men than women. That means you can have your pick of the best.”

Abby hated the reminder of her duty. Surely she’d paid for it with her marriage to Frank. However, one thing no bank, no demanding mother or cruel husband could take from her was her faith. God would provide the strength she needed for every test and trial. And please, God, a chance to start over.

Sally shifted and glanced at the sun overhead. “It’s noon. I need to start dinner but I hate to put Johnny down.”

“Let me hold him while you cook.” Abby held out her arms. By rights she should offer to make the meal, but she doubted Sally and her husband would appreciate her efforts.

Sally shifted the sleeping Johnny to Abby’s lap. “You never had any little ones of your own or did they—?” She clapped her hands to her mouth to stop the words.

Abby understood Sally feared she might have brought up a painful subject—like she’d had babies and they died. “No, we never had children.”

“I’m sorry.”

Abby brushed Johnny’s hair off his forehead. Oh, to have a child of her own to love and cherish, though she couldn’t be sorry Frank had not given her one. It would have been a thousand times worse to endure Frank mistreating a child and she knew he would have if only to get at Abby.

She shifted the baby so she would look westward. In Oregon she hoped and planned and prayed she would find the freedom she longed for which, to date, had always seemed far out of reach.

Little Johnny fussed and Abby sang softly until he relaxed again. All the while, she watched Sally stir a pot of stew that had been simmering over the coals then slice a loaf of batter bread she’d baked in the tin oven. If Mother wasn’t watching like a hawk, Abby would have asked Sally to explain how she did all that. Mother had forbidden her to ask for help from the women around them.

We’re Binghams. We don’t need help.

Abigail knew otherwise. If they were to make it across the great plains and over the mountains, Bingham or not, they’d need help because Abby had no idea how to manage under these circumstances. She’d have to learn by observation. They had a tin oven, as well. She’d try baking biscuits in it.

Mr. Littleton returned. “How’s Johnny?”

Sally answered. “He’s sleeping.” But at the sound of his father’s voice, Johnny stirred and held out his arms. Mr. Littleton took him gently, careful of the bandaging around the baby’s middle.

Abby pushed to her feet. Her fingers trailed down Johnny’s back then she stepped away. “I best go prepare dinner for my folks.” She returned to their wagon.

Mother huffed as Abby set to work. “I hope you don’t plan to spend a lot of time with the likes of those people.”

Abby pushed aside annoyance. “Mother, it’s a long trip. Those kinds of people will be our constant companions.”

Mother pulled herself into her self-righteous posture. “You don’t need to associate with them. Keep yourself apart until we reach Oregon and then we’ll find you a proper suitor.”