Page 1 of Caroline’s Compass

Chapter One

April 28, 1854

Westward Trail

Caroline Whitaker woke to the sound of her eldest sister laughing in the wrong place.

For twenty-seven years, Eleanor's morning voice had come from the bed beside hers, the next room, or—during the past month—from a bedroll beneath the lead Whitaker wagon. This morning it came from beyond the wagon circle, where a small canvas tent had been raised for the newly married couple.

Caroline lay beneath the second wagon with Charlotte on one side and Lydia's elbow pressed against her ribs on the other. Grace and Lucy had managed to turn their blankets sideways in the night. Martha was already gone, which meant the fire would be lit and breakfast halfway prepared before anyone else admitted to being awake.

Rebecca snored once beneath the neighboring wagon, stopped, and said, “I do not snore.”

“No one accused you,” Caroline said.

“Someone thought it.”

Lydia opened one eye. “I thought a small ox had become trapped under the wagon.”

Rebecca threw a rolled stocking at her.

Caroline pushed aside her blanket and sat up. Her back objected to the ground, the wagon, and possibly the entire Oregon Territory. She had discovered that trail life made a person aware of bones she had never considered in Missouri.

Eleanor laughed again.

All five sisters who remained beneath the wagon went still.

Lucy whispered, “Do you think she knows we can hear her?”

“She does now,” Charlotte said.

Silence fell beyond the circle.

Lydia covered her mouth with both hands. Her shoulders shook.

Caroline crawled into the cold morning before the family could create a difficulty that would require Eleanor to murder someone on the first day of her marriage.

The fading bruise along Caroline's hip protested when she straightened, a last reminder of the wagon accident. Across the camp, Eleanor moved carefully around ribs still tender from the river crossing, while Nathaniel guarded the right shoulder strapped beneath his coat. The injuries were healing. None had vanished merely because a wedding had occurred between one camp and the next.

The sky had only begun to pale. Fires glowed between wagons, and the oxen stood as dark shapes in the grass. Mr. Daugherty was already walking toward the animals with a bucket. Mrs. Bell sat beside her wagon wrapped in a shawl, holding her walking stick across her knees as if she had been awake all night waiting to observe poor decisions.

“Good morning,” Mrs. Bell called.

Caroline looked toward Eleanor's shelter. “You might say it more quietly.”

“I might,” Mrs. Bell agreed. “I will not.”

Martha stood over the fire, stirring cornmeal. “Coffee is nearly ready.”

“Then civilization continues.” Caroline took the second spoon from her and checked the mush's consistency.

“I have it.”

“I know.” Caroline stirred anyway.

Martha looked at her. “Eleanor is married, not dead.”

“I am aware.”