Where the Lost Wander: A Novel(24)

I get a fire started and make some coffee, hoping it won’t encourage anyone out of sleep too soon. I’m not ready for the day or the sun or the company, and as I sit with my cup in silence, I breathe slowly, willing time to follow my rhythm. With the animals inside the circle, I have built the fire beyond the perimeter of the wagon train, far enough to avoid a disturbance and close enough to welcome my family when they rise.

A soft tread lifts my chin and scatters my morose thoughts, and John Lowry, his sleeves rolled and his clipped hair dripping, separates from the darkness that stretches toward the Platte. My fire makes him look like a mirage, and I stand, awkward, like I’ve been waiting for him. Maybe I have. Maybe I’ve summoned him with my desperate thoughts. It’s been only a week since he kissed me, since I asked him to kiss me again, to kiss me better, but it feels like it’s been a thousand years.

“Would you like coffee?” I ask and immediately wish I hadn’t given him any choice. I don’t wait for his answer but rush to refill my cup and hand it to him while I search for another.

“Sit. I’m harmless,” I insist.

He bites his lip like he wants to disagree, but he sinks to his haunches obediently, cradling the tin cup between his big palms. I want to set the cup aside and crawl into his arms. Abigail’s death and Wolfe’s birth have turned me into a hollow-eyed ghoul; I’ve been putting one foot in front of the other, all my strength dedicated to keeping my family from falling into the hole of despair sucking at our plodding feet. I’ve had no time for thoughts of John, but my heart has kept the fire burning, and I want to beg him not to leave the train.

“You’re up before you need to be,” he says, his tone hushed, saving me from blurting out in anguished pleading.

“You are too,” I reply, but my voice sounds like I’m being strangled.

“The wind forced me beneath Abbott’s wagon, and Abbott forced me back out again. He was louder than the gale.”

At that moment, Pa’s snore reaches a crescendo, and baby Wolfie wails, the sound tired and cantankerous. We both laugh, but the ache in my throat intensifies.

“We move on tomorrow. What’s next for you, Mr. Lowry?”

“Abbott wants me to remain with the train. He’s offered me a job.”

I nod, trying not to reveal my pounding heart.

“Are you going to take it?” I whisper.

He sips his coffee and studies the fire as though he’s not made up his mind. Light and shadows writhe on the bridge of his nose, the swell of his cheek, and the jut of his chin.

“Yes. And I’m going to run half my mules to Fort Bridger. I’m going to keep Kettle and Dame . . . maybe start my own breeding farm in California.” He says the words with a finality that makes me believe the decision has just settled on him with a sudden, considerable weight. My heart skips, and my next question sounds a little breathless.

“Where’s Fort Bridger?”

“About a thousand miles . . . that way.” He points downstream, his arm parallel to the Platte.

“Why mules?” I press, trying to keep him with me a moment more.

“It’s what I know. They’re strong. And smart. And stubborn. The best parts of a horse and a donkey rolled into one.”

“Horses are prettier. Better to draw too.”

“Horses are like big dogs. Men and dogs belong together. Men and horses too. But mules . . . they just put up with us. They aren’t eager to please.”

“And you like that?”

“I understand it.”

“Do you have a girl, Mr. Lowry?” I blurt out. I am not eager to please, but I am eager. I don’t know what it is about him, but he makes me want to stake my claim on him, hard and fast. My boldness is not new, but my interest is. Widow or not, I have not felt like this before.

“Are you looking for another husband, Mrs. Caldwell?” John Lowry counters around the rim of his coffee cup.

“I wasn’t. But then I met you.” I meet his gaze, steady. No games. No giggles. “But I think you’re probably like the mules, Mr. Lowry, and I’m going to have to work for your attention.”

Surprise leaps among the light and shadow. His eyes cling to mine for a startled second, and he makes a sound like a laugh—just a puff of breath—but it doesn’t turn up his lips or wrinkle his eyes.

“You’ve got my attention, Mrs. Caldwell. But I’m not sure that’s what you really want.” He sets his coffee down and begins to rise.

“I know my own mind, Mr. Lowry. I always have. My own heart too.”

“But you don’t know the terrain.”

“I’m counting on you to guide me through it, John, all the way to California.”

“I’ve never been,” he murmurs. “I don’t know how to do this . . . any of it.”

“So we go steady and slow,” I say.

“Like ícas.”

It takes me a minute to remember the word and realize what he’s said.

Like the turtle.

I stand as well, my weariness forgotten, my eyes searching his.

“Yes. Just like that,” I say.





5





THE PLATTE


JOHN


I herd all my mules and my two jacks into the rear paddock behind the fort and leave Dame in the care of a Pawnee boy in an army cap, a faded uniform, and a pair of moccasins that makes me think he’s not an official recruit.