Free Leaving Independence by Leanne W. Smith Page B

circle. He tipped his hat and looked away.

    Abigail looked around the circle of travelers, her eyes stopping on Hoke. He stood tall and brooding beside several other men. His arms were crossed and he was chewing on a stick again, talking to no one.
    Even at this distance Abigail could tell that his eyes—his whole body—simmered. His gaze seemed locked on her, but then it darted away, seemingly catching every movement at the gathering. A tall, bearded man in suspenders and calf-length boots stood next to him, beside a low, flatbed wagon someone had pulled to the middle of the ring.
    Colonel Dotson hopped on the wagon and cleared his throat. “Welcome, everyone! We’ve got twenty-seven families, forty-six wagons, and seventy-eight souls on this train.”
    “And two thousand miles to get to know each other,” yelled a man from the back of the crowd. Several people whooped and clapped.
    “That’s right.” Dotson laughed.
    Abigail realized with a sinking feeling that she should have brought simpler dresses. Several curious stares, some hostile, kept aiming in her direction. She wondered if word had gotten out about her money being stolen. What if folks didn’t believe her? Few would feel sorry for the Baldwyns’ present circumstances when it would appear they’d had plenty in the past. Abigail leaned toward each of the children and told them not to mention their stolen money to anyone.
    The blackest stares in the group were coming from a petite, dark-haired woman who sat several feet away. When Melinda Austelle came toward her, Abigail nodded at the woman. “Who is that?”
    “Irene McConnelly. And to answer your question, yes. She always looks like she’s been suckin’ a pickle. Her and that other woman over there, Sue Vandergelden.”
    “I was worried she thought I was overdressed.”
    “She is probably jealous of your looks and your nice clothes. I really like your shirt, by the way. It’s got the prettiest sleeves.”
    “Thank you.” Melinda’s kindness felt extra warm after the cold stares she’d received from Irene McConnelly. “I can show you how to make them.”
    Abigail liked the loose fit of Garibaldi sleeves and usually paired a white shirt with a black Swiss waist or a striped vest with pockets to hold her thimbles. She wore a blue-and-green-striped vest now, and her deep-purple skirts billowed over high-quality boots. Abigail had thought her everyday clothes were dated, but compared to most of the other women here—including Melinda, who wore simple muslin dresses and bonnets with little trimming—she was the very picture of fashion itself.
    She noticed that a small pink rose was embroidered in each corner of Melinda’s bonnet brim, though.
    “That’s good stitching,” said Abigail. She disliked wearing bonnets herself—they blocked her view on the sides. She wore hats instead, with a string tied under her chin. She didn’t like parasols, either. A woman needed her hands free to work in the garden.
    “Nothin’ like this, though.” Melinda inspected the collar of Lina’s cotton dress. “Aren’t you smart? Look at this embroidery, Emma! Is that not pretty? So detailed.”
    “Your boys are handsome, too, in those vests and boots,” said Emma, Melinda’s daughter who was Corrine’s age.
    Charlie looked at Emma, his face reddening.
    Melinda introduced Emma to Corrine and told Charlie and Jacob, “You need to meet my boys, Clyde and Cooper.”
    Dotson was speaking again. “We’ve divided into four companies. Company A will be led by Gerald Jenkins.” Jenkins stepped up on the wagon so everyone could see him.
    He read the names of everyone in Company A, including three single men—brothers fresh from Scotland—who didn’t have rigs of their own but would drive supply wagons for Dotson. A family named Peters planned to open a general store. Two older spinster sisters wanted to open a library. Dotson was also part of Company A. Not leading a team himself kept him free to handle