Chapter Nine
Tributary Country
Eleanor's ribs hurt.
They had hurt since the ferry accident, but that morning the ache had sharpened until every deep breath felt like a small knife beneath her left side.
She said nothing.
Martha would tell her to rest. Caroline would agree. Rebecca would find a way to mention that Eleanor was not made of iron. Lydia would make an inappropriate joke, and Lucy would look frightened.
Nathaniel would order her into the wagon.
Eleanor now had authority over the rear division. She could not appear weak the day after receiving it.
She drove the first wagon until midmorning, then walked beside the second to check the repaired reach. When Charlotte asked whether she was well, Eleanor said she had slept poorly.
That was not a lie. It simply wasn't the whole truth.
“I can manage the bank,” Eleanor said.
“I did not say you couldn’t,” Nathaniel said.
“Your expression did.”
At the noon break, Eleanor tried to lift a grain sack from the rear of the wagon.
Pain seized her side.
Her breath disappeared. The sack slipped. Eleanor staggered backward toward the wheel.
Strong arms caught her before she fell.
“Do not move,” Nathaniel said.
“I was not planning to.”
“How long?”
“How long what?”
“How long have you been in pain?”
“I am bruised. We knew that.”
“Eleanor.”
It was the first time he had used her name without being invited.
She liked it enough to resent him.
“Since the river,” she admitted. “It became this sharp yesterday morning.”
“Martha!”
“Do not shout for my sister as if I am dying.”
“Then stop behaving as though you intend to.”
Martha hurried over. Nathaniel stepped back only far enough to let her examine Eleanor.
“The ribs may be cracked,” Martha said quietly. “More likely badly bruised. Either way, lifting will worsen it.”
“I cannot spend the day in the wagon.”
“You can,” Nathaniel said. “And you will.”
Eleanor looked at him. “You gave me authority yesterday. Today you take it because I am injured?”
“I am taking nothing. I am ordering you to rest because a person who cannot breathe cannot lead.”
“You would not order a man into a wagon.”
“I have tied men into wagons.”
Rebecca nodded. “I believe him.”
“No one asked you,” Eleanor said.
Caroline arrived and folded her arms. “Get in the wagon.”
“Not you too.”
“Especially me. Seven sisters have watched you work through pain for days. That is not leadership. That is punishment, and none of us knows what crime we committed.”
Eleanor stared at her.
Caroline's eyes filled. “You cannot keep us safe by making us afraid you will collapse.”
The anger left Eleanor all at once. “I am sorry,” she said.
“Good. Get in the wagon.”
Eleanor obeyed.
The first hour was unbearable. She heard the wagons moving, the teams being directed, and her sisters making decisions without her. Every few minutes, she lifted the canvas to see what they were doing.
Charlotte finally tied it shut from the outside.
“That is mutiny,” Eleanor called.
“It is wind,” Charlotte answered.
“There is no wind.”
“A very selective wind.”
Eleanor lay back against the bedding. She expected disaster.
None came.
Caroline drove. Rebecca checked the teams and the repaired wagon. Charlotte kept the rear division's spacing. Lydia carried messages when Nathaniel signaled a change. Martha checked Eleanor so often that Eleanor threatened to become ill merely to justify the attention.
Her sisters managed. That should have pleased her. Instead, it frightened her. If they did not need her every moment, who was she?
*****
NATHANIEL RODE BESIDE the Whitaker wagon for most of the afternoon.
He lifted the canvas. Eleanor was sitting against a pile of bedding with her arms folded.
“How is the prisoner?”
“Considering escape.”
“Charlotte tied an excellent knot.”
“You encouraged her.”
“I praised her afterward.”
Eleanor looked toward the road ahead. “The train is moving well.”
“It is.”
“Caroline has not struck anything?”
“Only your pride.”
She frowned.
Nathaniel rode quietly for a few moments. “When Abigail became ill, I worked more.”
Eleanor turned toward him.
“I was still in the Army,” he continued. “There was always something to count, move, repair, or order. I convinced myself I was serving her by remaining useful.”
“Were you?”
“Sometimes. Other times I was avoiding the house because I could not cure her.”
Eleanor's expression softened.
“On the last day, she asked me to sit with her. I told her I needed to finish arranging supplies.” Nathaniel swallowed. “She died before I returned.”
“Nathaniel.”
“Work is not always courage. Sometimes it is fear wearing clean boots.”
Eleanor looked down at her hands. “I do not know how to stop being responsible.”
“I am not asking you to stop.”
“It feels that way when you tell me to rest.”
“Then I should have explained instead of ordering you.”
She looked surprised.
“You were endangering yourself,” he said. “That frightened me. I spoke as a man accustomed to command, not as someone asking you to trust him.”
“And I heard every man who ever believed a woman should obey because he was stronger.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“I am learning.”
They watched the road together.
“We need a signal,” Eleanor said eventually.
“For what?”
“For when I need help but do not wish seven sisters and one wagon master to behave as if the earth has opened.”
“What signal?”
She considered. “I will ask whether you have checked the weather.”
“That is a strange request for help.”
“Which means no one else will recognize it.”
Nathaniel smiled. “Agreed.”
At camp, Martha changed Eleanor's bandage. Nathaniel waited nearby until she finished, then approached with a cup of coffee.
“How is the weather?” he asked.
Eleanor looked at him, then laughed. “Clear.”
He handed her the cup.
Their fingers touched. Nathaniel's gaze dropped to her mouth.
Eleanor knew he was going to kiss her.
She wanted him to.
“Eleanor!” Lucy called from the wagon. “Lydia put a frog in my blanket!”
Eleanor closed her eyes.
Nathaniel turned away, laughing.
“I did not put it there!” Lydia shouted. “It chose your blanket!”
Eleanor got to her feet carefully. “I am beginning to understand why Father planned six months on the trail. He hoped at least one of us would become sensible before Oregon.”
Nathaniel followed her toward the wagon. “Do you believe it will happen?”
“No.”
Neither of them mentioned the kiss that had almost happened.
Both thought about it for the rest of the night.
Rebecca had named the Whitaker oxen despite insisting that naming working animals was foolish.
Eleanor learned this when she heard her sister say, “Archibald, if you step on my foot again, I will personally turn you into supper.”
Eleanor stopped beside the team. “Archibald?”
Rebecca froze.
Lydia appeared instantly. “You named them?”
“No.”
“You just threatened Archibald.”
“That is not his name. Archibald would be a silly name for an ox.” The ox turned its head when Rebecca said it.
Lydia gasped. “He knows his name.”
Rebecca glared at the animal as if betrayed.
“What are the others called?” Grace asked.
“They are not called anything.”
Lucy pointed to the steady off ox. “That one is George.”
Rebecca’s silence answered for her.
Caroline began laughing. “You named four oxen after elderly gentlemen?”
“They have elderly personalities.”
“What does that mean?” Eleanor asked.
“They are stubborn, suspicious, and offended by hills.”
Nathaniel approached with a length of harness in his hand. “Which one is Archibald?”
Rebecca looked horrified. “Who told you?”
“Everyone.”
“I hate this family.”
“No, you do not,” Martha said.
Rebecca scratched Archibald behind one horn. The ox leaned toward her.
Lydia folded her arms. “You love him.”
“I tolerate him professionally.” Archibald nudged Rebecca’s shoulder. “Professionally,” Rebecca repeated.
Nathaniel handed her the harness. “The Coleman trace is fraying. I would like your opinion.”
Rebecca’s expression changed immediately. Humor gave way to concentration. She ran the leather through her hands, bent it, tested the stitching, and pointed to a place Nathaniel had not mentioned. “This will fail before the trace does.”
Nathaniel examined it. “You are right.”
Rebecca brightened in a way she never did over dresses, parties, or compliments.
Eleanor noticed.
Someday Rebecca would need a man who understood that telling her she was pretty would please her but asking her how to repair something would win her attention.
That seemed like a difficult order.
Eleanor looked at Nathaniel.
Perhaps difficult orders were not impossible.