Page 86 of Eleanor’s Earrings

“Tell me about Abigail,” Eleanor said.

Nathaniel looked surprised. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything you wish to tell me.”

For several moments, he was quiet. “She laughed loudly. In church, at supper, during serious conversations. Her mother believed it was a character flaw.”

“Was it?”

“No. It was one of the things I loved most.”

There was affection in his voice, but not the desperate pain Eleanor had expected. She felt no jealousy. Abigail was part of the man beside her, and Eleanor would not ask him to cut away pieces of himself to make room for her.

“She hated traveling,” he continued. “A six-mile trip required three days of preparation and enough food for a month.”

“You would have made an excellent pair for the Oregon Trail.”

“We would still be in Independence.”

Eleanor laughed.

Nathaniel looked at her. “Loving you would not replace her.”

The words stopped her.

“I know,” Eleanor said.

“Do you?”

“Yes. But I do not know if you would be choosing me or simply choosing someone else to carry.”

His brow furrowed. “Carry?”

“You take responsibility for everyone. The train. The children. The foolish men. Me.”

“You are not easy to carry.”

“That is not the point.”

Nathaniel considered. “Responsibility feels heavy. Being beside you feels like setting part of it down.”

Eleanor looked away because her eyes had filled.

“That was very well said,” she managed.

“I have been thinking about it.”

“Since when?”

“The first day, when you told me I was implying things.”

“You were.”

“I know.”

A shout came from the second wagon. Rebecca crouched beside one of the oxen, running her hand along its front leg.

Eleanor and Nathaniel hurried toward her.