She steps back, blinking away tears. “I will be very angry if I don’t see you in California.”
Therese darts away before we can respond, and I barely glimpse Mrs. Hoffman and Therese looking back over their shoulders before darkness swallows the whole family.
A moan drifts out of the wagon.
“Coming, Mrs. Joyner!” I holler.
Quickly, the six of us gather around—Major Craven, the college men, Jefferson, and me. “As much as I hate to admit it,” I say. “Frank had a good point.”
“On the top of his head,” Jefferson says.
“There too,” I say. “But about the other thing. Leave the Major’s tent behind, along with Peony and all the supplies she can carry. You fellows take Andy and Olive and the wagon and go on with the others. I’ll stay with her until the baby comes, and then we’ll catch up with you.”
I startle at their response, which is a single, unified chorus of no.
“She may need my help,” Jasper adds.
“I’m not leaving you,” Jefferson says. “Never again.”
“Leah!” She calls from the wagon.
I hesitate, unsure whether to argue sense into these fool men or run to Mrs. Joyner’s aid.
“Go,” Jefferson says. “We’ll take care of things here.”
I run to the wagon.
I climb inside to find the children clinging to their mother. Olive holds her mother’s hand, as if in comfort, but her lower lip quivers when she sees me. Andy’s face is swollen, and wetness streaks his cheeks. “Is Ma going to die too?” he asks, his right hand clutching my locket.
“Please,” Mrs. Joyner says. “I don’t want them to see me like this.”
Olive is easily led to the back of the wagon, but Andy has to be peeled free. “Jefferson,” I call.
All five men come running.
“Keep the children busy,” I order. “Make sure they get something to eat and maybe put them to sleep in the tent.”
The Major hobbles forward. “Come here, soldier,” he says to Andy. He braces himself against the wagon and lifts the boy by the armpits. “Let’s teach your big sister to make quick bread. Your ma is going to need it.”
The other men linger, as if eager for something to do.
“Go away,” I say, and they slink reluctantly into the darkness.
Mrs. Joyner sags into the soaked feather bed with relief.
“We’ll get you cleaned up,” I say, grabbing her hand. The wagon smells of blood and urine and sweat. “Then Jasper can come deliver the baby.”
She shakes her head. “It has to be you.”
“Me?”
“It was supposed to be Aunt Tildy. She was going to help me. . . . You’re the only other woman here.”
I open my mouth to argue, but a wave of pain takes her. Her eyes squeeze shut as her torso lifts from the bed. The last time I brought a baby into the world, she mooed, and I named her Gladiola, and she gave us milk a few years later. Surely this won’t be too different?
Mrs. Joyner collapses when the pain leaves her. “Promise me, Lee,” she whispers.
“Promise what?”
“Promise you’ll look after my children. Make sure they know how much their ma loved them.”
I lost my own mother less than eight months ago. Mrs. Joyner was already with child then. It seems so long ago. It seems like yesterday.
“Nothing is going to happen to you, Mrs. Joyner.”
“Becky,” she says. “Please call me Becky.”
“All right,” I say. “Becky.”
“I can’t stop thinking about the preacher’s wife.”
“Mrs. Lowrey?”
“Mary. Her name was Mary. A sweet girl. Not much older than you.”
“I didn’t know her very well,” I admit.
“I only spoke to her a few times.” She squeezes my hand. “You were wise to refuse the preacher’s offer. Put off marriage as long as you can.”
I almost ask why, but I’m not sure I want to hear more. Instead, I squeeze her hand in return.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” she says. “Every time I . . .” She puts a knuckle to her mouth and bites down. It’s not a contraction that’s taken her, but something even deeper and more painful. She tries again: “My own ma died giving birth. So did my grandma. And last year, my older sister . . . Every time I lay with my husband, I thought, ‘Becky, you will be dead in nine months.’ I know it’s God’s will that women suffer, that we are saved through faith and childbearing, but sometimes . . .”
“Things will be fine.” I squeeze her hand, again because one of us is shaking and I’m not sure which.
“You don’t know that,” she says. “That’s the problem with pregnancy—you never know. My husband was a gambler. The fool man never considered that the thing he gambled with most was me.”
All through the night, the contractions come slowly. Too slowly. I count the time between them, and they gradually grow closer together. She makes me check her frequently, which I do by candlelight. I can’t see any way a baby will come out.
Between contractions, she dozes. Once, I try to doze too, but as soon as I nod off, a hand reaches under the canvas to tug at my sleeve, and I nearly jump through the roof.
“Is there a baby yet?” Jefferson whispers to me.
“No,” I whisper back.
“Hampton is back!”
“Oh?” I brace myself for what he’ll say next.
“Just walked right into our camp carrying a barrelful of water, like a peace offering. Found the empty barrel back at the sink and filled it up.”
“Good,” I say. Then: “No one is going to . . . I dunno, do something awful to him? Are they?”
“You mean the Major? Not a chance—not with the Missouri men gone. That extra barrelful might really help.”
I loose a breath of relief. Hampton would have had a very different reception a few weeks ago, even from the families. But everything changes on the road to California.
Jefferson is silent, and I think he’s gone away. I drift off again.
“You know, the Major isn’t such a bad fellow,” he says, startling me.
“Oh?” I blink to wake my eyes. “Even after the way he talked about Indians?”
“He told me he had to do something, or the Missouri men would have done worse. That stupid drill was just to keep them happy.”
“Huh. You believe him?”
Another contraction snaps Becky Joyner awake, and she gasps in pain. Jefferson yanks the canvas flap shut and disappears.
The sun rises and burns its way across the sky, and still there is no baby. I continue to sit with Becky, telling her stories about growing up in Dahlonega, giving her sips of warm, brackish water, squeezing her hand through contractions.
“It was this way with both the other children,” she says after a bad one. Her skin is pallid and clammy. Salt streaks her face, and her hair is plastered to the side of her face. “With Olive, I was abed for thirty-six hours. Andrew was almost twenty-four.”
“That sounds awful,” I say.
She can’t answer because another contraction takes her. I murmur meaningless but soothing words. This one lasts forever. I’m just starting to wonder if I ought to go get Jasper when her face relaxes.
“That was more than three minutes,” I tell her with forced cheer. “They’re getting longer.”
She nods and gives me a brave, brief smile. Then she screams.
The waves come, over and over, relentless and fierce. She was right all along; she’s going to die. I check between her legs one last time. If there’s no progress, I’m fetching Jasper, no matter what she says.
I see the tiny crown of a baby’s head.
“Oh!” I say.
Her eyes fill with panic. Fingernails claw into the back of my hand.
r />
“Your baby has curly black hair!” I tell her.
Joy like I’ve never seen lights her sweaty face, makes her almost beautiful.
“The next time you feel a contraction, you should push, right?”
There is no answer, only agony. A vein on her forehead pops out. Her low, guttural groan crescendos into an agonizing scream. I glimpse the baby’s shoulders for a split second before its tiny body slips out, almost leaping into my outstretched hands.
“A girl,” I whisper, staring. She’s so little.
The slimy little bundle coughs, gasps, and then cries out, tiny but vigorous.
“Sweetheart,” Mrs. Joyner sobs, reaching out her arms. I place the baby where she belongs, and all the worry and pain drop away from the woman’s face like they never happened. The umbilical cord drapes across Becky’s torso and ends on the mattress in a mess of afterbirth. News first, clean up later.
I open the canvas flap and see eight weary bodies clustered in the shade of the tent, which has been stretched out flat like an awning. Their faces stare up at me in anticipation.
“A girl,” I say. “She’s fine. Her ma’s fine too.” I blink against the brightness. When did everything get so blurry? Maybe it’s because I haven’t slept in more than a day.
Jefferson claps his hands. “Great. Can we start moving now?”
But I’m looking over his head at something I’m not sure is there. A silhouette in the distance. Skirts flapping in the wind. A woman staggering out of the shimmering mirage that is the horizon.
It’s Therese. After five months on the road together, I would recognize her from any distance. She stumbles, gets up again.
I leap from the wagon and start running.
Everyone’s else pounding feet are right behind me. I skid to my knees when I reach her. She vomits—a thin, yellow gruel followed immediately by dry heaving. One foot is bare and riddled with open sores. Her sun-scalded skin is hot and dry. I try to help her up, and I feel her heartbeat under my palms; it’s as rapid and tiny as hummingbird wings.
“Therese?” Jefferson says. “Therese! What’s wrong with her! Jasper—”
“Heat stroke,” Jasper says. “Quick, get her into the shade and give her some water.”
Jefferson lifts her by the armpits. I grab a leg; Hampton the other. She swings between us as we half walk, half run back to the shade of camp.
“‘Märchen von einem, der auszog das fürchten zu lernen,’” she babbles.
“I don’t understand, Therese,” Jefferson says. “Tell me what happened.”
“It’s a fairy tale, silly,” she says. Her eyes meet mine, and her face gets a sudden clarity. She reaches out, as if to grab my arm but misses. “You have to help them.”
“Of course we will,” I say. We’re almost to the tent.
“The axle broke,” she says. “Everyone left us behind. Vati tried to lead on foot, but Doreen was too heavy. He fell. Please . . . help . . .”
Her eyes roll back, and fear stabs through me. “Where are they?”
“I really wanted to see California.”
“Therese, where are—”
She seizes. Her leg shakes out of my grasp and plops to the ground.
“Hurry!” Jasper yells. He directs us to lay her down and turn her on to her side, then he dribbles water over her skin.
“Therese,” Jefferson whispers. His hand snakes out and grabs mine.
We watch, helpless, as she convulses for several minutes. It’s like seeing a contraction all over again. Except when she finally stills, her eyes are wide and sightless, and no breath passes her lips.
“What happened?” Jefferson asks. “Therese!”
Jasper shakes his head.
Henry says, “She cooked to death in her own body.”
It’s not true. It didn’t happen. Not to Therese. But she doesn’t move. She doesn’t even blink. I can’t amputate the badness from her. I can’t run to her rescue. I can’t give her a golden locket to keep her safe.
Jefferson opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
“What’s going on?” Becky Joyner leans over the edge of the wagon, her new baby cradled to her chest. Olive and Andy peek out at her waist.
If I let out an answer, I won’t be able to hold anything in.
“It’s Therese,” Hampton says gravely.
Jasper rises to his feet, his face stricken. “Her family is in trouble. She ran through the desert to get help. She sacrificed . . .” His jaw trembles.
I squeeze Jefferson’s hand. Therese is a hero. Just like she wanted.
“Then we must go to them,” Becky says fiercely. “Right away.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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Chapter Thirty-Three
There’s no time to bury Therese properly, not if we want to help her family, but we wrap her tightly in the Major’s tent and weigh her down with rocks.
Her death can’t be for nothing. It can’t. So the only eulogy she gets is action. We have the oxen yoked and the wagon underway in record time. It heaves and jerks over the rocky trail, but Becky Joyner makes no complaint. She is so relieved to be alive that she cleans up and takes care of herself.
All through the night we press on, with only short breaks every hour to give the animals a few sips of water and some bites of bread. Peony’s head droops. The oxen cry piteously. Near dawn, the first one falters. Jefferson and I run to unyoke him and leave him behind.
We find the broken wagon around nine in the morning. The axle is shattered, but there were no spare parts—everything was discarded to lighten the load.
Jasper is quick to take charge. “We’ll organize our search from here,” he says. “We’ll take the horses and ride out in circles until we see their tracks or find—”
“No,” I say with certainty. The Hoffmans are not nearby. I don’t sense their secret gold stash at all.
“We shouldn’t separate,” Hampton says. “No one can survive out here alone.”
Everyone nods, except Jefferson, who stands with his head bowed, his shoulders slumped. I’ve never seen him look so defeated, not even when he was getting the worst of it from his da.
“Therese was clear,” I say. “Her father was trying to get through the desert on foot before he collapsed. We’ll keep to the trail until we catch up with them.”
“Are you sure?” Jasper says.
“I would gamble my life on it.”
Jefferson’s head snaps up. “Don’t say that.”
Jasper says, “Let’s grab the water barrel and any supplies from their wagon and go.”
In minutes, we’ve stripped it of everything useful and are pushing onward. An hour or so later, another ox drops to its front knees, then keels over to the side. We’re down to eight, with almost half of the desert yet to cross.
We pass one of the Hoffmans’ oxen, collapsed and dead. Then another. Above, huge buzzards glide in lazy circles. They’re the only creatures eating well in this godforsaken place.
The sun bakes us mercilessly as we plod forward—not just with heat but with light that sears my eye sockets. I’m so lost in the blaze of bright-hot determination, so focused on putting one foot in front of the other, that I almost miss it when my gold sense twinges. It’s the barest tickle in my throat, the softest siren call.
The Hoffmans’ hidden gold is at the absolute edge of my range. I close my eyes and concentrate. It’s off to the left, over a rise and out of view.
“I see tracks!” I shout. “Leave the wagon here, feed and water the animals. Some of you come with me.”
There are no tracks; anyone can see that, and I give a split-second thought to how careless I’m being, but it doesn’t matter. We have to find the Hoffmans. I hav
e to do one last thing for the girl who was becoming my friend.
I don’t bother to see if anyone follows my instructions; I break into a jog and crest the rise. The rocky, ochre earth stretches for a mile. Beyond it is a shimmering expanse, like a lake of light. At the edge of the mirage are seven tiny, dark figures.
The silhouettes are as still as death. We’re too late. Like Therese, they’ve—
One of the figures shifts, moves into the shadow of another. Jefferson, Hampton, and Jasper are suddenly beside me, and then Tom and Henry. Together, we pour down the slope toward them.
They’re even farther away than they seem. We are heaving from effort by the time the figures become distinguishable—Mr. Hoffman laid out under a makeshift awning, Doreen curled up near his feet. Luther and Martin sit together with Otto while Carl leans against his mother’s side.
Martin waves as we approach, relief flooding his face, but Mrs. Hoffman is the only one who struggles to her feet. Her face is splotchy, like she’s been crying, but her body has no wet tears to spare.
“Therese found you!” Her eyes search behind us for her daughter.
I try to respond, but the words clog my throat.
Mrs. Hoffman stares at me, and then she stares at Jasper, who shakes his head. She stands stock-still for the space of three heartbeats. Then she wraps her arms around her belly, eyes squeezed tight, and says, “Gott hab sie selig.”
Mr. Hoffman remains unresponsive. Beside him is a giant, bulky knapsack. Its contents make my whole body thrum.
Jasper crouches beside him, pries open his mouth, and forces water from his own canteen between Mr. Hoffman’s lips. He chokes, and his eyes flutter.
“We need to get back to the trail,” I say.
“Ja.” Mrs. Hoffman rouses her children. The oldest boys can walk on their own, but the three youngest must be carried. Doreen staggers over and climbs into my arms.
“Oof,” I say. She is too heavy, but all I have to do is put one foot in front of the other until we get back to the wagon. I can do it, for Therese’s baby sister.