Walk on Earth a Stranger

She lets go, pushing the skirt into my hands. “Even if you never wear it again. Just so you remember me.”

“I . . . Merci,” I whisper, and hope she knows I’m not just saying it about the skirt.

Her husband stands, saying, “Guess we ought to be going.”

Everybody says good-bye and shakes hands and makes promises to visit one another when they make it to Oregon or California, but nobody expects to keep those promises, and it’s writ all over everyone’s faces that we’ll never see one another again.

When I roll out my blanket outside the wagon circle, I take Lucie’s skirt and fold it up under my knapsack pillow. I lie on my back, and I don’t acknowledge Jefferson when he settles down next to me. I stare at the clear sky and all the cold stars and think about how far away they are.

Jefferson says, “I’m sad to see them go.”

He sounds so lonesome that my impulse to tell him to shut his trap dribbles away. “Yeah.”

“Mr. Hoffman has forbidden me from talking to Therese.”

“What?” I flip over. “Why?”

Jefferson is lying on his back, his head toward the Joyner wagon. I glance over too, my shout echoing in my head as I brace for Mr. Joyner’s thump—which, of course, doesn’t come.

I lower my voice anyway. “Why?”

“Frank Dilley told them I’d been the one stealing. He said I was giving it all to my red-skinned brothers.”

“No one who knows you would believe that.”

“Mr. Hoffman said he couldn’t ignore the accusation. He said he needed to think on it a bit.”

I roll onto my back to stare at the sky again, because my heart aches too much when I look at Jefferson’s face, even in the dark. “I should have let you bust Frank Dilley’s nose,” I say.

“That would have made things worse,” he says.

“But it would have been a pleasure to watch.”

Major Craven’s tent is only about ten feet away. He coughs and rustles around inside. The wagon creaks beside us as Mrs. Joyner shifts her weight. Muted laughter comes from the bachelors’ wagon.

Jefferson whispers, “Why’ve you been so mad, Lee?”

I sigh, not sure what to say. A cricket chirrups nearby. Such a cheerful sound, which makes me even grumpier. “Reverend Lowrey proposed marriage to me.”

“What?” It’s his turn to shout.

“It was the most unromantic proposal a girl could have. Which was good. Because until it happened, I thought yours was the most unromantic.”

“I—”

“Hey, Lee, maybe we can pretend we’re brother and sister,” I mock.

“Yes, but—”

“Is it wrong to want to be wanted?”

“No, but—”

“You wanted me to help you escape and go west. Uncle Hiram wanted me—wants me—because of . . . because he’s greedy. Reverend Lowrey wanted to pat himself on the back for rescuing a soul. It’s like I’m not really a person. Just a thing to be tossed around to make men feel good about themselves.”

I hear him breathing softly beside me. Finally, he says, “That’s not why I asked you.”

“Doesn’t matter anymore, does it?” I say. “You’re sweet on Therese now, even if you can’t talk to her. I don’t blame you one bit. She’s wonderful.”

Jefferson shifts beneath his blanket. Suddenly, his warm fingers slip between my own, and it’s like lightning zipping up my arm.

“I do like Therese,” he admits. “But she’s not you. No one is you, Leah.”

My next words get lost trying to find their way from my head to my mouth.

Jefferson’s thumb makes little circles on the back of my hand. My throat tightens, and all my limbs tingle, like I’ve just struck the purest, brightest vein of gold. Neither of us lets go.

The Major starts snoring in his tent. The dogs trot by, panting, as they return from whatever mischief they’ve been in.

I reach with my other hand for Lucie’s skirt. I finger the fabric, telling myself that the family we find can still be family, even when they’re far away. With one hand in Jefferson’s, the other clinging to Lucie’s skirt, I finally drift to sleep.

In the morning, when the wagon trains split and go their separate ways, I wait alongside the trail, so Lucie can see what I’m wearing.

Chapter Thirty-One

The hot sun beats down on me. It’s at least a hundred degrees. There’s no shade, no cool breeze, no escape. Sweat wicks off my skin faster than it forms, leaving everything caked with salt. My lips are cracked, my tongue swollen and dry. The sun is so bright it bleaches the color out of everything. I’ve never felt this hot, not even standing over Mama’s stove in my winter dress with the fire fully stoked.

All I can think about is that cold day last January when Jefferson stood behind the schoolhouse, surrounded by melting snow, holding a copy of the paper announcing gold in California.

The article made it seem like we were called to some great national purpose, a destiny so manifest that it was inevitable we should pack up and cross the continent. The discussion of travel routes, by sea and land, made us feel a part of some greater strategy. The instructions, the lists of supplies—they all felt like foolproof plans that would protect us and deliver us safely.

But the strategy does not matter, and our plans will not protect us.

In the end, it’s nothing complicated, or grand, or beautiful. It’s no more than the simple act of aiming in a direction and putting one aching foot in front of another across a baking desert until we either reach our destination or falter and quit.

Or die. We’ve lost too many people already. I look around at the families nearby, all trudging along with the same heat-glazed determination—the Hoffmans, the Joyners, the college men. My heart would break if we lost even one more soul.

“Another ox down!” comes the cry ahead of me.

This time it’s the bachelors’ wagon. Jefferson, Therese, and I run to help. Jeff reaches the exhausted animal first and unyokes it. The ox staggers free, barely able to stay on its feet.

Jefferson pulls down the bandanna that protects his mouth and nose from the relentless dust. “What do we do with it?” he asks Jasper. “Do you want me to put it on a lead?”

“No,” he says. “Let it follow the wagons if it can. If it can’t, then good luck to it.”