Read Journey of Hope: A Novel of Triumph and Heartbreak on the Oregon Trail in 1852 for Free Online

features. She’s above and beyond anything you could ever hope to control , Abel thought disdainfully.
    Ernest regarded his wife’s profile as she watched a wagon crossing the river. Her chin jutted out stubbornly, and her brows met in angry furrows. Nellie stood next to Emily looking uncertain. Ernest felt like wrapping Emily in his arms and shaking her at the same time. His feelings were often conflicted when it came to his wife. She could drive a man to distraction. He decided it was time to be firm.
    “Emily, we have to cross now. We can’t make these people wait on us again.” He was referring to her habit of painstakingly packing everything from the tent each morning while the other travelers waited for them to take their place in line.
    A few nights ago he had complained about this to her. “Why do we have to make this tent look like a parlor every night? Most of these people are happy if they’re moderately comfortable.”
    “Moderately comfortable is not acceptable, Mr. Hinton.”
    Ernest looked exasperated. “All this furniture—your frilly doodads,” he was referring to her collection of intricately crocheted doilies.
    Emily’s face darkened. “These things are my treasures, Mr. Hinton, and you won’t bully me into abandoning one more item.” She was referring to the end of the first day when she had been pressed to leave the cook stove and a small organ on the side of the trail when their wagon lagged behind the others. The captain had insisted they lighten their load or be left behind. She had unsuccessfully tried to sweet talk Captain Wyatt. Ernest had watched her batting her eyelashes and putting her hand on his sleeve.
    “Why, Captain, I’m going to need my stove when we get to Oregon. What am I going to cook on if I don’t have my stove? And that organ was my grandmother’s. Why, I’ve played hymns on that organ for twelve years. Surely the wagon train can go a little more slowly so that we can keep up.”
    The captain had been polite but firm. His shadowed eyes regarded her from under the wide brim of his western hat. His raspy voice was firm. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hinton. Other families have had to lighten their wagons. We all need to be able to keep on schedule if we are going to make good time and get to Oregon by next October.”
    No amount of cajoling would change the captain’s mind, and in the end, he and Ernest had unloaded the stove and the organ.
    “You are both heathens and barbarians!” Emily had cried, while Nellie had stomped around muttering under her breath about having to leave the stove.
    Over the next few days, Ernest had endured accusing looks from Emily, and her stony silence had lasted until he had brought her a puppy from one of the wagons where a dog had had a litter before they left Independence. She had tearfully hugged the little dog, exclaiming over his “precious little face,” and had promptly named him Buster.
    Ernest walked over to talk to some of the men who were helping wagons cross the Platte. Emily could barely hear their muffled conversation, and when they looked over at her, she imagined they were complaining about her obstinacy. Nellie stood next to Emily, intently watching the activity on the water.
    “Well, they can just complain all they want, because there is no way I am going into that water. No self-respecting woman would debase herself by floundering around in that filthy river.”
    It was true. The water was a muddy brown from all the wagons and livestock that had crossed over. There were shallow stagnant pools and mud flats. A three-foot-deep main channel meandered from side to side, and there were numerous sandbars between the shores. Previous travelers had set willow poles out to mark the stable sand bars that would support the weight of the wagons.
    Nellie looked at her mistress. She recognized that determined jaw-set.
    “I don’t want to go into that water either, Miss Emily, but I don’t see any way around it.”
    Abel Brown