Wagon Train Reunion (Journey West) Read online

  Second-Chance Courtship

  Abigail Black had no choice but to break Ben Hewitt’s heart years ago. Her parents had picked another, wealthier groom. Now widowed and destitute, she’s desperate to leave her old life behind. The wagon-train journey to Oregon is full of dangers, but she’ll face anything—even Ben—for a fresh start.

  Ben knows better than to trust Abby again. Between her family’s snobbery and his family’s protectiveness, avoiding her should be easy. Yet he’s still moved by Abby’s sweetness and beauty…along with a sadness and strength he never noticed in her before. Forgiving past wrongs would be a struggle—but the hardest struggle would be letting Abby go once more.

  Journey West: Romance and adventure await three siblings on the Oregon Trail

  “I will learn to do this,” Abby said through gritted teeth.

  Ben thought of all the things he’d observed her do—how she helped her father with the oxen, how she’d learned to use the reflector oven, how she walked many miles every day. “I think you’ll do just about anything you set your mind to.”

  She slowly brought her attention to him. “Yes?”

  “I enjoy hearing you sing.” His tongue grew heavy. “I appreciate the way you help Emma with the sick ones.” So many things sprang to his mind. How patient she was with her demanding mother—

  A mother who exerted such tight control over Abby. That was her problem, and he did not intend to let it become his.

  “Thank you.” She seemed uncertain as to how to respond.

  He had run out of things to say. Or at least, things he thought he could safely say. “Well, then, good night.”

  He strode back to the Hewitt wagon as if a wild animal was on his tail. He still had to endure miles and months of traveling in Abby’s company. But after six years he should be good at ignoring his feelings for her.

  There was no future possible between himself and Abby.

  * * *

  Journey West: Romance and adventure await three siblings on the Oregon Trail

  Wagon Train Reunion—

  Linda Ford, April 2015

  Wagon Train Sweetheart—

  Lacy Williams, May 2015

  Wagon Train Proposal—

  Renee Ryan, June 2015

  Linda Ford lives on a ranch in Alberta, Canada, near enough to the Rocky Mountains that she can enjoy them on a daily basis. She and her husband raised fourteen children—four homemade, ten adopted. She currently shares her home and life with her husband, a grown son, a live-in paraplegic client and a continual (and welcome) stream of kids, kids-in-law, grandkids, and assorted friends and relatives.

  Books by Linda Ford

  Love Inspired Historical

  Journey West Series

  Wagon Train Reunion

  Montana Marriages Series

  Big Sky Cowboy

  Big Sky Daddy

  Big Sky Homecoming

  Cowboys of Eden Valley Series

  The Cowboy’s Surprise Bride

  The Cowboy’s Unexpected Family

  The Cowboy’s Convenient Proposal

  Claiming the Cowboy’s Heart

  Winning Over the Wrangler

  Falling for the Rancher Father

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles

  LINDA FORD

  Wagon Train Reunion

  When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.

  —Isaiah 43:2

  I personally know many who have suffered losses and events that have left them hurting, broken and filled with doubt and guilt. You know who you are. Through the love of God may you find healing and wholeness. This story is dedicated to you.

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

  Contents

  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

  Excerpt

  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 he
r 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.

 
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