Leaving Independence by Leanne W. Smith

boots as Abigail pointed the boy toward the nearby corral. When the men left, he joined them at the fence. He chewed on the soft end of a hickory stick, liking the taste of it in his mouth. “You picked out the best twelve yet?”
    “Mr. Hoke, this is my son Charlie.”
    “Pleased to meet you, Charlie. And you can drop the Mr. Just call me Hoke.”
    “ Mr. Hoke,” said Abigail to Charlie. “I’m raising a gentleman, Mr. Hoke. It’s his habit to address superiors this way.”
    This woman had a way of saying things to which Hoke could not think of a tart response. He wasn’t glib like James, but neither was he usually tongue-tied. Feeling far from Charlie’s superior, he extended his hand. The boy took it heartily.
    Charlie was tall and stately like his mother but with darker blond curls. Same blue eyes . . . different nose and chin.
    “Sir,” said Charlie, “you’ve got some fine-looking horses there.” He pointed at the corral. “How many you got altogether?”
    “Why, you lookin’ to buy the whole bunch?”
    Charlie laughed. “Oh, no, sir. I was just curious.”
    Hoke liked him. Seemed like a good-natured kid. Couldn’t really help who his mother was. He turned his back on Abigail and concentrated on Charlie.
    “Which twelve would you pick?”
    Charlie pointed out a sorrel, two chestnuts, a quarter horse, and a large black mare. “I like that spotted one, too, but I’m not as familiar with that kind of horse.”
    “Those are mustangs—better for speed than pulling. Wild herds in the West attract all kinds. Some of these, like that quarter horse, were once tame and had been ridden, then got loose and joined this group. Others were born in the wild. I think the sorrel wandered up from Mexico. It had a piece of bridle on it with some fancy jangles like Mexicans use. A few of these had war brands. When soldiers and Indian war parties clash, horses without their mounts run off. Sometimes wagon trains are attacked and horses cut loose.”
    Charlie looked at his mother. “Now that’s a happy thought.”
    “The ones with brands are more compliant,” continued Hoke, turning so he could see Abigail again. “The wild ones are temperamental at first, but they calm down. If you’re putting together a team, you want to consider gender. Geldings and mares work best together. Stallions cause problems. Personally, I prefer to ride a stallion, but he’s willful. He’d fight with any other stallion if he were on a team with it and that’s a waste of precious energy when you’re looking at a two-thousand-mile trek.”
    Abigail looked uncomfortable. Hoke wondered if he’d nicked another nerve by turning his back on her.

    Abigail’s collar grew warm as she listened to Hoke talk to Charlie about the horses. Her comment the previous day about wanting to approve the selection seemed silly now. Hoke’s intuition had been right—her father raised mostly fine breeds, along with a few plow horses, nearly all of which had been confiscated first by the Confederacy, then the Union. These were western horses and Abigail knew nothing about them.
    Hoke looked at Charlie. “Your six are fine selections from what I have here, but I’ve already put the best ones in a separate corral for you. Cleared the brands, rubbed ’em down, even worked ’em together in teams.”
    He was looking squarely at Abigail now. “Like I said yesterday, you really need six on each wagon if you’re going to drive the twelve-foots, and I understand that’s what you bought.”
    She had only purchased those wagons a few hours ago! “How did you know that?” Was Hoke the one who’d been watching them earlier? No . . . she was certain she would have noticed if it had been him.
    “There are few secrets out here, Mrs. Baldwyn.”
    His voice was as deep as a rumbling waterfall. He needed a shave . . . a whole bath, really. He smelled like horse sweat—horse sweat with a hint of pine needles and chipped cedar.
    Yesterday she had