Chapter Twelve
Westward Trail
The repaired wagon rolled without trouble.
Eleanor listened for every creak anyway.
She had checked the new iron strap before dawn. Rebecca had checked after her. Nathaniel had inspected it before the train moved. Still, Eleanor glanced back every few minutes, expecting smoke, splintered wood, or some entirely new disaster.
Mrs. Bell joined her during the morning walk.
The older woman had been a widow for nearly ten years and traveled with her married son and his wife. She carried a walking stick she did not need and used it to point at anything that displeased her.
That morning, it pointed toward Nathaniel.
“Has that man declared his intentions?” Mrs. Bell asked.
Eleanor nearly stumbled. “What man?”
“Do not insult me. I may be old, but I am not blind.”
“Mr. Cooper is the wagon master.”
“He was the wagon master when he kissed you behind the wagon?”
Eleanor stopped walking. “How do you know about that?”
“Your seven unmarried sisters know, which means the train knows.”
“They would not.”
Mrs. Bell looked at Lydia, who was whispering to a group of girls near the second wagon.
Eleanor sighed. “They would.”
Mrs. Bell lowered her voice. “Trail courtships grow quickly. People are frightened, lonely, and far from everything familiar. A man may say many things in Missouri and remember none of them in Oregon.”
“Nathaniel has said very little.”
“That can be worse.”
Eleanor resumed walking. “There is no courtship.”
Mrs. Bell made a sound that expressed her opinion without requiring a word.
“What?” Eleanor demanded.
“Nothing. I enjoy watching young women lie to themselves. It reminds me of happier years.”
Eleanor walked faster. Nathaniel fell into step beside her.
“Your sisters are watching us,” Nathaniel said.
“The whole company is watching us,” Eleanor said.
“That is considerably worse.”
She was painfully aware of Nathaniel for the rest of the morning. He rode ahead, returned to check the rear wagons, spoke with Rebecca about the repaired reach, and stopped to help a child retrieve a dropped shoe.
He did not behave like a man who intended to forget everything by Oregon.
That did not mean he wanted a life in Clover Creek.
At midday, Nathaniel appointed Mr. Hall to oversee the rear wagons for the afternoon.
Eleanor frowned. “Why?”
“Because your ribs still need rest.”
“You are removing me again.”
“No.” He lowered his voice. “I am asking whether you agree that one half-day of walking without the whistle is sensible.”
She studied him.
He had remembered. He was explaining instead of commanding.
“I agree,” she said.
“Was that painful?”
“Extremely.”
“You hid it well.”
They walked together as the wagons began moving again.
“Tell me about Abigail,” Eleanor said.
Nathaniel looked surprised. “What do you want to know?”
“Anything you wish to tell me.”
For several moments, he was quiet. “She laughed loudly. In church, at supper, during serious conversations. Her mother believed it was a character flaw.”
“Was it?”
“No. It was one of the things I loved most.”
There was affection in his voice, but not the desperate pain Eleanor had expected. She felt no jealousy. Abigail was part of the man beside her, and Eleanor would not ask him to cut away pieces of himself to make room for her.
“She hated traveling,” he continued. “A six-mile trip required three days of preparation and enough food for a month.”
“You would have made an excellent pair for the Oregon Trail.”
“We would still be in Independence.”
Eleanor laughed.
Nathaniel looked at her. “Loving you would not replace her.”
The words stopped her.
“I know,” Eleanor said.
“Do you?”
“Yes. But I do not know if you would be choosing me or simply choosing someone else to carry.”
His brow furrowed. “Carry?”
“You take responsibility for everyone. The train. The children. The foolish men. Me.”
“You are not easy to carry.”
“That is not the point.”
Nathaniel considered. “Responsibility feels heavy. Being beside you feels like setting part of it down.”
Eleanor looked away because her eyes had filled.
“That was very well said,” she managed.
“I have been thinking about it.”
“Since when?”
“The first day, when you told me I was implying things.”
“You were.”
“I know.”
A shout came from the second wagon. Rebecca crouched beside one of the oxen, running her hand along its front leg.
Eleanor and Nathaniel hurried toward her.
“He is lame,” Rebecca said. “Not badly yet, but he will be if we keep him in the same position.”
It was the same ox whose hoof had troubled him in the mud on their second day. Rebecca had found no swelling then, but the repeated strain had plainly returned.
The ox stood with one hoof held slightly off the ground.
Eleanor's heart sank. They had no money for another animal. Their supplies already stretched the capacity of both teams.
“Can he walk?” she asked.
“Slowly, with less weight.”
Nathaniel examined the leg. “We can stop here, but I cannot hold the entire train more than one day.”
“You expect us to abandon a wagon?”
“I expect us to find another solution before tomorrow morning.”
Eleanor looked at him. “And if we cannot?”
“Then we make the least bad choice.”
She glanced at the second wagon, their remaining supplies, and her seven sisters.
The earrings were gone. Their money was nearly gone. Now one of the animals meant to carry them to Oregon could barely place its hoof on the ground.
For the first time since leaving Independence, Eleanor could not see an answer.
That evening, Eleanor let the question remain unanswered. She had not put uncertainty on Father’s inventory.
“Who moved my gloves?” Eleanor asked.
Silence.
“Lydia?”
“You always blame me.”
“Because it is usually you.”
“That is prejudice based on evidence.”
Lucy pointed toward Nathaniel.
Eleanor turned.
Nathaniel was wearing her gloves. They were far too small.
She stared.
He looked down. “These are uncomfortable.”
“Why are you wearing my gloves?”
“I found them on my saddle.”
Lydia began laughing.
Eleanor turned slowly toward her.
Lydia ran.
Eleanor looked back at Nathaniel. “Take them off.”
“I am trying.”
One glove had become stuck.
Rebecca examined the situation. “You may lose the hand.”
Nathaniel looked alarmed.
“She is joking,” Eleanor said.
Rebecca shrugged. “Probably.”
Eleanor pulled the glove free.
Nathaniel flexed his fingers. “You rescued me.”
“Do not become sentimental.”
“Should I search a river for something?”
“That joke was terrible.”
“You smiled.”
“No.”
“You did.”
Rebecca said, “She did.”
Eleanor looked at her. “Whose side are you on?”
“The entertaining one.”
Nathaniel nodded. “Wise policy.”
Eleanor put on her gloves. “I dislike all of you.”
Nathaniel smiled. “Not all.”
She walked away before he saw her blush.
The next clear evening, the camp discovered that Lydia Whitaker should never be given responsibility for organized entertainment.
She announced storytelling after supper.
Eleanor looked up from the cup she was drying. “Who gave you permission?”
“No one.”
“That was my first concern.”
Lydia climbed onto an overturned crate near the largest fire. “Everyone is tired of talking about wheels, mud, oxen, weather, and how many miles we failed to travel.”
Nathaniel, seated on a log, said, “Some of us find those subjects fascinating.”
“No one finds wheels fascinating.”
Rebecca raised her hand.
Lydia sighed. “One person finds wheels fascinating.”
Thomas Reed lifted a finger.
“Two. That does not alter my argument.”
Caroline smiled at Thomas. “You should not have admitted it.”
“I value accuracy.”
“So does Charlotte. It has not made her popular.”
Charlotte looked up from her sewing. “I am extremely popular.”
“With numbers,” Rebecca said.
“Numbers are reliable.”
Lydia clapped her hands. “Stories. Every family must tell one.”
Mr. Daugherty groaned.
Mrs. Bell immediately pointed her walking stick at him. “You first.”
His groan became louder.
The children cheered.
Eleanor sat beside Nathaniel. “This will end badly.”
“Probably.”
“You look pleased.”
“I am not responsible.”
“That is why you are pleased.”
“Exactly.”
Mr. Daugherty stood reluctantly. “I have no story.”
Mrs. Bell said, “A man your age without a story has not been paying attention.”
The camp laughed.
Daugherty frowned. “Fine. When I was sixteen, my brother and I stole our father’s wagon to go to a dance.”
Lydia sat down immediately. “This is already excellent.”
“We did not steal it. We borrowed it.”
Nathaniel murmured to Eleanor, “That distinction appears important to sixteen-year-old boys.”
“Were you ever sixteen?”
“Briefly.”
“I have difficulty imagining it.”
“I was very responsible.”
Eleanor looked at him.
Nathaniel sighed. “Moderately responsible.”
Daugherty continued. “We got halfway there before one wheel came off.”
Rebecca leaned forward.
Lydia pointed at her. “Do not interrupt the story with repairs.”
“I was going to ask why.”
“Exactly.”
Daugherty explained that he and his brother had failed to replace a linchpin after greasing the axle.
Rebecca closed her eyes.
Nathaniel whispered, “This is painful for her.”
“I can see that.”
“We spent half the night searching for the wheel,” Daugherty said, “and the other half walking home.”
“Did your father punish you?” Samuel Turner asked.
“He made us repair every wagon on the farm for a month.”
Rebecca nodded approvingly. “Good man.”
Mrs. Bell said, “And did you ever reach the dance?”
“No.”
Lydia looked genuinely distressed. “That is the saddest part.”
Daugherty sat down to applause.
Mrs. Turner told a story about meeting her husband at a church picnic after he spilled lemonade down the front of her best dress.
“He blamed the table,” she said.
Her husband protested. “The table moved.”
“It was a table.”
“One leg was shorter.”
“For fifteen years he has maintained the table attacked him.”
Mr. Turner looked around the fire. “None of you saw that table.”
Nathaniel nodded solemnly. “A fair point.”
Eleanor looked at him. “You are taking his side?”
“I am preserving the possibility of hostile furniture.”
“You have spent too much time with my sisters.”
“Almost certainly.”