Journey of Hope: A Novel of Triumph and Heartbreak on the Oregon Trail in 1852 by Victoria Murata Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Victoria Murata
had. She saw the sympathy in Nellie’s eyes despite her sharp words.
“I can’t do this, Nellie. I’m tired and dirty.” Her voice broke. “I want to go home!” Nellie felt compassion for this girl who was like a daughter to her, but she knew she had to be firm. She knelt in front of Emily and looked into her eyes.
“Your home is with your husband now. Where he goes, you must go. Whatever you’ve written in that letter, it had better not be crying over something that can’t be helped. Think about your father. He’s already worried sick about you. Do you want to cause him more grief?”
Emily sniffed loudly. She hadn’t thought of it that way. She found her handkerchief in her sleeve and blew her nose loudly.
“No, I don’t want to worry Daddy.” Her voice was almost a whisper. She sighed loudly. “You’re right, Nellie. It will do no good to complain.” Her shoulders slumped dejectedly. She belonged to Ernest—for better or for worse, and she had promised to love, honor, and obey him. Those vows spoken at her wedding held a bitter taste in her mouth. The married life she had pictured looked nothing like this. In a way, she felt betrayed.
“That’s my girl. Things may look bleak right now, but remember, every cloud has a silver lining.” Nellie patted Emily’s shoulder and left the tent to finish the evening chores. Emily looked down at the letter in her lap. She thought of her father reading it at his large oak desk in the study. Slowly she tore the letter into small pieces. Maybe Nellie was right. Maybe things would get better.
That night the travelers had time to gather around one of the campfires and talk about the day. Some of the men from the fort joined them. They were familiar with the trail, and a few had traveled it more than once. Many people wanted to know what to expect in the days ahead.
“Will all the river crossings be as easy as this one?” James Cardell asked. He was transporting fruit trees to Oregon to start an orchard.
“Will there be trouble with the Indians?” Thomas Benson inquired.
“Will we be able to restock supplies at the other forts?” Michael Flannigan asked. Many people had read accounts that had been written about the overland journey. There was a lot of discussion and speculation.
Later there was music and some of the women and girls danced. The mood was light. Emily joined in the singing and her voice was clear and strong until someone started singing “Where Home Is.” Then she was reminded of her family and the beautiful farm she had left when she married Ernest. Her melancholy returned, and she left the circle of people and retired to the tent.
As she crawled between the blankets and closed her eyes waiting for sleep, her last thought was that conditions couldn’t get any worse. Buster curled up next to her and licked the chin of the sleepy young woman. Emily resolved to look on the bright side. Tomorrow would be a better day.
The next morning it began to rain.
The Dream
Chapter Six
Mile 427
Michael Flannigan looked across the campfire at his wife. Kate was bent over the pan of water, cleaning up the dishes they had used for dinner. Her riotous dark hair was tied in a bun at the nape of her neck, but a few strands had worked free and corkscrewed over her forehead. He noted the dark circles under her eyes. This journey was taking its toll on her. The everyday tasks for a woman of packing up in the mornings, unpacking in the evenings, cooking, washing, gathering firewood or buffalo chips, building fires, and carrying water were hard enough in the best of conditions, but it had rained for a week and this evening’s was the first fire they had been able to build. The rain had been steady and everything was dripping wet or damp. His fingers deftly worked on the harness that needed repairing, and his thoughts drifted far away, back to Ireland seven years earlier .
It had been a cool, wet summer in 1845. That fall the potato crop had
“I can’t do this, Nellie. I’m tired and dirty.” Her voice broke. “I want to go home!” Nellie felt compassion for this girl who was like a daughter to her, but she knew she had to be firm. She knelt in front of Emily and looked into her eyes.
“Your home is with your husband now. Where he goes, you must go. Whatever you’ve written in that letter, it had better not be crying over something that can’t be helped. Think about your father. He’s already worried sick about you. Do you want to cause him more grief?”
Emily sniffed loudly. She hadn’t thought of it that way. She found her handkerchief in her sleeve and blew her nose loudly.
“No, I don’t want to worry Daddy.” Her voice was almost a whisper. She sighed loudly. “You’re right, Nellie. It will do no good to complain.” Her shoulders slumped dejectedly. She belonged to Ernest—for better or for worse, and she had promised to love, honor, and obey him. Those vows spoken at her wedding held a bitter taste in her mouth. The married life she had pictured looked nothing like this. In a way, she felt betrayed.
“That’s my girl. Things may look bleak right now, but remember, every cloud has a silver lining.” Nellie patted Emily’s shoulder and left the tent to finish the evening chores. Emily looked down at the letter in her lap. She thought of her father reading it at his large oak desk in the study. Slowly she tore the letter into small pieces. Maybe Nellie was right. Maybe things would get better.
That night the travelers had time to gather around one of the campfires and talk about the day. Some of the men from the fort joined them. They were familiar with the trail, and a few had traveled it more than once. Many people wanted to know what to expect in the days ahead.
“Will all the river crossings be as easy as this one?” James Cardell asked. He was transporting fruit trees to Oregon to start an orchard.
“Will there be trouble with the Indians?” Thomas Benson inquired.
“Will we be able to restock supplies at the other forts?” Michael Flannigan asked. Many people had read accounts that had been written about the overland journey. There was a lot of discussion and speculation.
Later there was music and some of the women and girls danced. The mood was light. Emily joined in the singing and her voice was clear and strong until someone started singing “Where Home Is.” Then she was reminded of her family and the beautiful farm she had left when she married Ernest. Her melancholy returned, and she left the circle of people and retired to the tent.
As she crawled between the blankets and closed her eyes waiting for sleep, her last thought was that conditions couldn’t get any worse. Buster curled up next to her and licked the chin of the sleepy young woman. Emily resolved to look on the bright side. Tomorrow would be a better day.
The next morning it began to rain.
The Dream
Chapter Six
Mile 427
Michael Flannigan looked across the campfire at his wife. Kate was bent over the pan of water, cleaning up the dishes they had used for dinner. Her riotous dark hair was tied in a bun at the nape of her neck, but a few strands had worked free and corkscrewed over her forehead. He noted the dark circles under her eyes. This journey was taking its toll on her. The everyday tasks for a woman of packing up in the mornings, unpacking in the evenings, cooking, washing, gathering firewood or buffalo chips, building fires, and carrying water were hard enough in the best of conditions, but it had rained for a week and this evening’s was the first fire they had been able to build. The rain had been steady and everything was dripping wet or damp. His fingers deftly worked on the harness that needed repairing, and his thoughts drifted far away, back to Ireland seven years earlier .
It had been a cool, wet summer in 1845. That fall the potato crop had
Similar Books
Little Red Gem
D L Richardson
Leverage
Joshua C. Cohen
Rules about Lily
Angelina Fayrene
Submission Under the Mistletoe
Yvette Hines
A Fire Upon the Deep
Vernor Vinge
Agent of Influence: A Thriller
Russell Hamilton
Dead Ends
Erin Jade Lange
The Place of the Lion
Charles Williams
Low Town
Daniel Polansky