I take some jerky and bread with the college men, who are always unstinting with their butter and glad for company. We chat for a long time. Jasper tells me that some of the Missouri men have fallen ill too. “Stay away from them,” he warns. “And from Mr. Joyner, if you can. I expect we’ll lose a few people to the sickness before it’s done.”
I recoil a little. “Like who?”
He shrugs. “People who have eaten unripe fruit, maybe. Or those who drink too many spirits.”
I need to warn Jefferson. I thank the college men for dinner and make my way back to the Joyners’ wagon. Jeff isn’t here, but I find Mrs. Joyner in a much better temper.
“That was a kindness to send Mrs. Lowrey over,” she says.
“She looked like she could use the company.”
“We prayed together,” Mrs. Joyner says. “She prays with sincerity and sound doctrine, even though she is a Presbyterian. I may invite the Lowreys over to our wagon for supper sometime.” After a pause she adds, “She could fall sick any day now.”
“Any of us could. But I don’t think she has the cholera,” I say.
Mrs. Joyner turns her face away. “No, woman-sick. Forget I said anything. You wouldn’t understand.”
Frustration boils up inside me, because I do understand. Mrs. Lowrey’s birthing time could be upon her any moment. And every child on the way is like a roll of the dice with fate. You never know if you’ll deliver easy or if the pains will kill you. Or if your baby brother won’t even draw breath long enough to earn his name.
But men don’t talk about these things, much less hired help to genteel ladies. I start to walk away, boots scuffing the dirt, thinking about evenings on the porch with Mama, when we watched fireflies and drank sweet tea and talked about all the things that men don’t talk about.
Mrs. Joyner says, “Can you run over to Mrs. Robichaud’s wagon and fetch Andy for me?”
I whirl back around. “Andy’s not here?”
“No.” Her voice is steady, but her eyes are alarmed.
“What about Olive?”
“She returned more than an hour ago.”
“Mrs. Robichaud sent them both back. Her own boys are unwell.”
Mrs. Joyner sheds her malaise like it’s a second skin. She jumps to her feet, picks up her skirts, and jogs through the camp yelling her son’s name. When Andy doesn’t immediately appear, I dash over to the Hoffmans’ wagons to find Jefferson.
He and Therese are sitting side by side on a bench. Therese’s hands are folded neatly in her lap, her shoulders not quite touching his. “Andy junior wandered off,” I say breathlessly.
“Wandered off where?” Jefferson says.
“I don’t know. No one has seen him for at least an hour.”
He rises, plopping his hat back on. “I’ll have a look around.”
Therese says, “I will too.”
“Thank you,” I tell her.
She hollers for her siblings’ attention and starts organizing them to search.
My belly is in a tangle. Bad men like the brothers are out there. And quicksand along some of the streams. Subtle changes in the flat landscape that you don’t notice until suddenly you can’t see the wagons any more. And even though I’d never say it aloud to Jefferson, Andy could have been kidnapped by Indians. He might already be miles away.
I can cover more territory with Peony. I’ve only taken three steps toward her when a glad cry rings out from the far end of camp, where the sheep are grazing away from the cattle.
A silhouette manifests in the firelit darkness. It’s Hampton the shepherd, Mr. Bledsoe’s slave, carrying a boy on his shoulders.
Someone reaches for Andy, but he flinches away, clinging to poor Hampton’s head.
“Unhand that boy!” someone else shouts.
I push through the growing crowd, Mrs. Joyner on my heels. Andy starts to wail in panic. He’s covered in dirt or worse, and tears streak muddy trails down his cheeks. Hampton tries to lever the boy’s arms away from his face, but without success.
“Hey there, Andy,” I say, arriving a few steps ahead of his mother. “It’s Lee. Want to come back to the wagon and get something to eat?”
His wailing stills. I offer my arms, and all at once he releases Hampton and tumbles right into them. His tiny hands go around my neck, and he rests his cheek on my shoulder. “I’m thirsty, Lee,” he whispers.
“He’s not hurt,” Hampton says. “Just scared is all.”
“What were you doing with him?” Mrs. Joyner cries.
“For God’s sake, he was bringing him back to you,” I say.
She stiffens, but then the fight melts out of her. She reaches with a finger and brushes a bit of blond hair from Andy’s head.
“I suppose I should thank you,” Mrs. Joyner says to Hampton.
“You’re welcome, ma’am,” he says. “I better get back to the herd, or Mr. Bledsoe will be displeased.”
“I should tell him of your good deed,” Mrs. Joyner says.
“That’s not necessary, ma’am.”
The commotion is over as fast as it started. Hampton returns to the sheep, the crowd disperses, and Andy, Mrs. Joyner, and I walk back to our wagon.
“I can carry him,” she says.
“If you don’t mind me saying, you look tuckered out.”
She gives a little harrumph of assent, but she reaches over and strokes his forehead again.
Andy has grabbed the chain around my neck, pulling Mama’s locket out from under my shirt. He opens it and closes it, opens and closes. He has the softest brown eyes, not like his mother’s at all. My baby brother would have brown eyes if he’d lived, for sure and certain.
I get an idea.
Before I can think twice about it, I give Andy over to his mother and reach under my collar to unclasp my locket. I drape it around Andy’s neck and hook it closed. It feels strange not having it tingling against my skin. Like emptiness. Like wind where there should be water.
“This locket has given me strength and courage,” I tell him. “You can wear it now, if you want.”
“All right.” His chubby fingers deftly open it. “What’s this?”
“A lock of hair.”
Mrs. Joyner perks up. “A sweetheart?”
“From my baby brother,” I explain quickly. “He’s gone now.”