She chatters our ears off the whole time, about her brother Otto, who got his arm stuck in a hole while trying to catch a prairie dog; about one of the Missouri men, who whistles at her every time he walks by; and about the tiny mouse that got into Doreen’s bedroll last night and made her squeal like a baby pig.
Seeing the two of them together puts a sting in my chest—the way they laugh so easily, the way she walks beside the sorrel mare with a hand resting on the stirrup or possibly Jefferson’s boot. But Jeff was right; Therese is as warmhearted as she is pretty, and she gives no indication that she ever thought me unfriendly. Despite the way she gazes at Jeff all the time, I’m sorry I avoided her so long. Friends are hard to come by, and I wasted too much time on the trail being blockheaded.
By noon we’ve traveled eight miles and reached a small creek. It’s barely more than a trickle. Another week of dry weather will turn it into an empty, graveled ditch. The mud on either bank is plowed into long ruts and dried solid—monuments to the wagon wheels that have gone before us.
We make camp with the sun still high. We’re to have a feast tonight, and everyone contributes. Jefferson tickles a couple of trout from the creek. The Missouri men share some coffee—they’re the only ones with any real coffee left—and Mrs. Hoffman makes a mountain of flapjacks and serves them with honest-to-God black currant jam that she said she was saving for a special occasion. When the college men reveal a bottle of whiskey they’re willing to share, I expect Reverend Lowrey to launch into a sermon about drunkenness and debauchery. Instead, a rare smile splits his face, and he extols the many virtues of partaking in moderation, as exemplified by God’s own Son, who turned water into wine.
Only the Joyners hold back, and Mrs. Joyner goes through her usual ritual of setting out the checked tablecloth with impeccable linens and fine china. She is heavy with child now, her movements slow, her rests frequent. But she lines up those checks perfectly with the table’s corners, and she smoothens out the tablecloth like the world might come to an end on account of a single wrinkle.
She bakes a loaf of lumpy bread in the Dutch oven and sets some dried peas to soaking over the fire. Jefferson and I take one look at each other, and by silent mutual agreement decide to take supper with the Hoffmans. Maybe we can trade for Jefferson’s trout.
We’re heading away when she calls out to us. “Wait!”
She disappears inside the wagon, rustles around, bangs hard against something. She mumbles to Mr. Joyner, who has not come out of the wagon in two days, though no one will say why. I hope the cholera hasn’t returned.
When she climbs out, she’s holding two wax-sealed jars filled with a yellow-orange substance. “Peach preserves,” she explains. She puts one on the table and hands the other to me. “Please share them with the Hoffmans, with my compliments.”
My mouth waters and my eyes sting, because the thought of peach preserves gives me such a pang for Mama that it’s an actual hurt in my chest. I tip my hat at Mrs. Joyner and manage a thank-you.
No one in the company has pie or dumplings, milk or butter. We haven’t had a fresh fruit or vegetable in months. Still, we have a regular potluck, everyone wandering from wagon to wagon to see what’s been cooked up, and we eat until we’re fit to burst.
As the sun sets, we clear a space in the middle of our wagon corral. Two of the Missouri men bring out their fiddles. Then Mr. Robichaud surprises us by fetching his own instrument—a glossy walnut violin that soars over them all. He plays “Hail Columbia” and “My Country ’Tis of Thee,” even though he’s from Canada. Mrs. Robichaud beams with pride as everyone sings along, even me, though I sing softly, so my girl’s voice doesn’t carry.
Then we start dancing, and though I’ve never been one for dancing, there doesn’t seem much to it except twirling a lot and kicking up your heels. I dance with Andy in my arms, then with Olive, and when Jefferson asks me for a spin I almost say no, but the Missouri men are dancing together, and no one is paying them any mind, so away we go.
Jefferson knows as much about dancing as I do. We bump into each other and step on each other’s feet and laugh so hard our guts hurt. Then he asks Therese to dance. Then I ask Therese to dance. Then Jasper asks me, but halfway through our dance, the fiddles suddenly cease, and we go shock-still.
Major Craven has climbed out of the wagon all by himself and is limping toward us, using a thick branch wrapped in rags for a crutch. His shortened leg swings oddly as he hobbles along, and sweat beads on his forehead, but he’s grinning like it’s the best day of his life.
He’s been bedridden since his amputation and hasn’t left the wagon except to relieve himself, and then only with Jasper’s help. He sees us staring at him, frowns, then bellows, “I can’t believe you started the celebration without me!”
I let out a whoop of joy. Someone else follows. Then everyone is yelping and laughing and clapping him on the back. Mr. Robichaud starts fiddling “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” and everyone sings at the tops of their lungs.
Only Frank Dilley holds back.
Major Craven spots Frank, extricates himself from his congratulators, and hobbles over.
“Good to see you up and about, Wally,” Frank says, but his arms are crossed and his eyes are hard.
The Major braces himself on the crutch while lifting a hand to clasp Frank’s shoulder. “Thanks for leading the company, Frank. You’ve done a fine job.”
Frank nods but says nothing.
“I’d take it as a personal favor if you kept at it,” the Major adds. “I’m still stove up.”
Frank unclasps his arms and offers the Major a hand to shake. “Sure thing, Wally.”
Everyone breathes a little easier, and the fiddles start up again.
As the sun sets over tomorrow’s road, our singing winds down, and the dishes are cleared and scraped. I head off into the darkness to take care of my personal necessities, thinking that this has been the best Fourth of July ever. I’m a quarter mile up the creek when I sense it—a tingle in my throat that intensifies until it’s buzzing like mosquitos at the base of my skull. I hone in on the source and drop to my knees, right in the middle of the creek. A water bug skitters away as I sift through the gravel of the creek bed. I can hardly see what I’m doing, but I don’t have to.
Warmth washes through me when I touch it. To my fingertips, it feels like any other pebble, but my soul knows it’s anything but. I lift it from the water and hold it up to the stars. The tiny gold nugget is no larger than the nail of my pinky finger. Probably worth about ten dollars.
I smile. I can’t wait to get to California.
Jefferson and I have ridden out ahead with our rifles, hoping to spot some game. My eyes hurt from squinting against the sun, even though I wear a hat all day long.
“See that mountain up ahead?” Jefferson points to a low, rounded mound on the horizon. “I think that’s it.”
“It’s called Independence Rock, not Independence Mountain,” I say.
“Everything is bigger out here. Just look at me.” He straightens in his saddle and puffs out his chest and fails to keep a straight face.
“Your head is bigger, that’s for sure.” But he’s right. Jefferson has grown at least an inch. His neck has thickened, his shoulders broadened. He’s hardly the lanky boy with giant knees I knew back in Georgia. I’ve grown too, but not in height. I shift uncomfortably, resisting the urge to check on the shawl hidden beneath my shirt. It’s getting harder to keep my chest wrapped tight.
Jefferson urges the sorrel mare on, and I wish I could feel as cheerful as he does. Things have gone well for us. Major Craven continues to improve. We resupplied at Fort Laramie. We’ve traded with Indians along the way and haven’t had any problems except for minor bits of theft—a blanket, some food, a single gun.
Frank Dilley has kept the wagon train moving seven days a week. Which is how we’ve come to reach Indepen
dence Rock only a week after the Fourth of July. We’re almost on schedule, in spite of starting out so late.
But I can’t shake this mood, like something’s going to happen and I ought to see it coming.
“That’s the Rock, Lee,” Jefferson says. “I’m sure of it. Doesn’t it look like a piece of the moon fell down from the sky?”
“Yeah, it kind of does.”
It’s a big gray dome, big enough that you could fit the entire town of Dahlonega inside, rising from the flat golden plain, like God dropped a giant ball in the mud and left it half-buried. Everything is bigger out here in the west. I suppose I should feel smaller by comparison, but it makes me feel bigger too, like the whole world is growing inside me.
We reach the rock and dismount, then hobble our horses to graze. “Oh!” Jefferson exclaims, brushing the rock with his fingertips. Names and dates are scratched into the stone, and some of the lettering is as fine as anything you’d see in Mr. Anders’s schoolhouse back home. There are hundreds of names. No, thousands.
“Look at all these people,” Jefferson says. “You think they were going to California for the gold?”
“Nah, look at this one—‘Wm. Shunn, 1846.’”
“Here’s one from just two weeks ago.”
“The Mormons came this way. And folks going to Oregon. People have been passing by this rock for a long time.”
Jefferson pulls out his knife and starts carving letters. I peer over his shoulder. He’s picked a small spot for such a big name, squeezed between other etchings.
“Wait,” I say. “I want . . . Our names should be together.”
He freezes, like a rabbit who just heard the cry of a hawk. “Okay.” He lowers his knife, and his gaze shifts to my face, lingers on my lips, and I’d give all the gold in California to know what he’s thinking.
I swallow hard. “Right there?” I say, pointing to an untouched area.
“Sure.”
I pull out my own knife and start scoring the rock. He goes to work beside me, and we have a comfortable silence with nothing but the scritch-scritching of our knives and the wind in the grass.
“Lee, I’m sorry I left.”
“What?”
“It’s been eating at me. Your parents had just been killed. You were my best friend, and you were in a bad way, and I abandoned you.”
I dig in harder and blunt the tip of my knife. It will need a good sharpening tonight. “You were in a bad way yourself. I didn’t blame you for leaving. Not one bit.”
“Truly?”
Well, maybe for a moment or two. “Truly.”
“It’s just . . . I did the thing I swore I’d never do.”
“I don’t understand.” But my knife stills as suddenly I do. Jefferson was abandoned too. “You swore you’d never leave someone, same way your mama . . . You were the eighth brother. The one who stayed.”
“And maybe I was a little mad. From when I asked you to . . . you know.”
“Marry you?” At his silence, I can’t help but add a stinging, “Or the part about pretending to be brother and sister?”
He winces. “I figured you were done with me.”
“I wasn’t done with you. I was just getting started with me.”
He snorts. “And have you finished with you yet?”
I clear gravel and dust from my lettering with a fingertip. “I don’t know, Jeff. People here actually like me and respect me, and that’s nice. But they don’t know who I really am, and truth be told, I’m not sure either.” For some reason, my stomach is tied up in knots. “Look, about that time, I’m sorry if I—”
“Stop saying that,” he says. “You don’t have to be sorry for anything.”
“Well, you don’t have to be sorry neither.”
I’ve got LE carved into the stone. I pause a moment, deciding.
I reach for Mama’s locket before remembering it’s not there anymore. I think of the afternoons we spent on my new Sunday dress. I think of Jefferson asking me to marry him, back when I was a girl. I lean forward and add an AH.
LEAH WESTFALL.
That name won’t mean anything to anyone in our wagon train, but it means something to me.
Jefferson pauses his own efforts to stare at my name. A tiny grin tugs at his mouth.
I ask, “You going to be ‘Jefferson McCauley’ or ‘Jefferson Kingfisher’?”
“‘Jefferson McCauley Kingfisher,’” he says brightly.
I sigh in mock despair. “We’re going to be here until the middle of the night.”
“Good thing this rock is big enough to be a mountain.”
We climb to the top and look back over the country we’ve traveled. The trail is a wide depression in the grass, stretching like a river into the eastern horizon. To the south and west are mountains. At this distance, they are no more than blue blurs on the horizon, soft and gentle and cool.
Our wagons approach, headed by the Missouri men. We wave wildly, and they wave right back. There’s a short break while people carve their own names or initials, then we get underway again.
I aim Peony for the college men’s wagon. Jasper drives, and Major Craven sits on the bench beside him, an awl in one hand and the sole of a boot in the other. I didn’t know he was a cobbler, and I can’t imagine how he’s getting any work done, being jounced around as he is.
“Hey, Major,” I say.
He looks up from his work. “That was a brevet promotion, and I’m no longer commander of this expedition. Call me ‘Wally.’”
“Sorry, sir. I thought Major was your first name.”
He laughs. Then he point to my stirrups. “Are your feet really that big? If not, I could fix those boots for you. Trim ’em down to size. Least I could do.”
The skin of my feet have grown so accustomed to getting rubbed every which way that Daddy’s boots hardly bother me at all anymore. “They’re fine. Anyway, I don’t want anyone cutting into them. Thanks, though.”
“Let me know if you change your mind.”
“The mountains don’t look so bad from here,” I say to change the subject.
“We ought to reach the Devil’s Gate around noon. You’ll know it when you see it. It’s a narrow gap between two cliffs, like a doorway in a garden wall.”
“Why such a gloomy name?”
“Because once we pass through it, the rest of the road is a bloody hell. Sulfur springs with boiling water. Hills so steep that wagons roll right back down. Mountains so high you can’t breathe on top. Rivers without water. And deserts in every direction that take three or four days to cross.”
Jefferson has ridden up beside me. “Can’t we go another way?”
“Nope. Only way to reach the green grass of Oregon or the sweet gold of California is through hell itself.”
I roll my eyes. The Major has been especially colorful since his amputation, cussing and exaggerating and telling tall tales. He reminds me of Daddy, except not fit for female company.
“You think we can climb to the top and take a look around?” I ask.
The Major pats his stump. “As long as you don’t mind going without me.”
“That’s a great idea, Lee,” Jefferson says. I turn to smile at him, but he’s already heading away. “I’ll see if anyone wants to come with us.”
I want to shout no, to explain that I want it to be just him and me, but he’s already asking Tom and Henry, so I steer Peony toward the Joyners’ wagon.
Mrs. Joyner drives the team, something she never would have done when we started out. She wears a pinafore over her skirts, and the oxen’s reins are pinched between her knees. In her hands is a small walnut clock with brass trim, which she is polishing with a cloth.
There is no sign of her husband.
“Lee,” she acknowledges, rubbing at that clock like her life depends on it.
&
nbsp; “Ma’am.” I tip my hat. “Came by to see if you or Mr. Joyner were interested in climbing up Devil’s Gate with us. It’s right on the river. Should be a sight.”
“Mr. Joyner is not interested,” she says.
I’m not sure how long it’s been since I’ve laid eyes on him, except to see a vague shadow in the wagon bed whenever Jeff and I load and unload. I’ve worried that the cholera has returned, but the wagon definitely does not smell of cholera.
“Maybe Andy and Olive would like to come? I won’t let them out of my sight.” I expect her to agree at once. Lately, Mrs. Joyner has been trying to keep them away from the wagon—to give Mr. Joyner his rest, she says—jumping at every opportunity to let them play with the Robichaud twins or the Hoffman children.
Olive has been walking beside the wagon, a ragdoll in one hand, her baby brother’s hand in the other. “Please, Ma?” she says.
“Me too!” Andy says.
Mrs. Joyner rests her hand on her enormous belly. If it gets any bigger, she can throw a tablecloth over it and serve tea. “Certainly. As long as you both mind Lee.”
I spy Jefferson talking to the Robichauds, so I head over to the Hoffmans, Olive and Andy in tow.
Mr. and Mrs. Hoffman sit side by side on the bench of the first wagon. Mrs. Hoffman holds a needle and an embroidery hoop. I’m surprised her fingers don’t look like she picked up a porcupine.
“Guten Morgen, Herr Hoffman,” I say.
“Good morning to you,” he replies in a thick accent.
Therese sticks her head out from the wagon and peers at me from between her parents’ shoulders. “Hallo, Lee!”
“Want to climb up to Devil’s Gate with Jeff and me? We’re taking some of the children.”
“I would like very much to go with you. Bitte?”
“Ja, ja,” her father says.
“Danke,” Therese says, kissing her mother’s cheek. She climbs onto the jockey box and hops down.