Where the Lost Wander: A Novel(38)

John is listing in the saddle, Wyatt too, and for a minute I can’t tell who is who. They are both riding mules, and Wyatt is wearing John’s black felt hat, though beneath it his cheeks are scarlet. His jaw is clenched, and his hands are fisted tight in Trick’s wiry mane. He’s exhausted, fighting for control of his emotions. John lifts his head enough to greet us, but he can’t dismount by himself. I reach for him, not caring who’s watching, but Wyatt is suddenly there beside me, his arms upraised, and together we pull John down, supporting him between us.

“Where’s Dame, John? Didn’t ya find Dame?” Webb asks, incredulous, looking over the mules. Will and Pa and Warren have come running. Ma too, and Warren and Will start herding the animals toward the water.

“We found her,” Wyatt says, and his voice cracks with emotion. “But I lost my hat. John made me wear his.”

“Where is she, John?” Webb presses, his chin starting to wobble.

John doesn’t answer, and I’m not sure he’s completely conscious of anything but his feet and the next step. Wyatt speaks for him.

“Some Pawnee braves found the mules. They wanted two of them. One of mine, one of John’s. But John wouldn’t let ’em go. He gave ’em Dame instead.”

“Dame’s livin’ with the Indians now?” Webb cried.

“Shh, Webb. It’s all right,” John mutters. “It’s better this way.”

“What took you so long? I thought you was never comin’ back!” Webb howled, giving voice to everyone’s feelings. It has been a long twenty-four hours.

“We had to go slow, almost as slow as the oxen do, ’cause John could hardly stay in the saddle,” Wyatt says. “But he did. He did, and we made it. And we got the mules.”

“That’s right. You’re here now,” Ma says, patting Wyatt’s sunburned cheeks.

“You did good, Wyatt,” John murmurs. “I’m proud of you.” And Wyatt can only nod, his tears creating dirty stripes across the red.

“You’re all grown up, Wyatt. All grown up,” Ma whispers. “And you’re a fine man.”



John rides in the back of Warren’s wagon for two days, too weak to do much but sleep and eat the little bit of mush I force upon him. Pa says if I am going to spend so much time alone with him, he’s going to ask the deacon to marry us.

I tell Pa, “Fine with me,” and that shuts Pa right up. I sit with John as much as I can, trying to draw as we lurch along.

“We found one of your pictures, me and Wyatt,” John says softly, and I raise my eyes from the page.

“I left five or six. Maybe more.”

“Why?”

“I was leaving you a trail,” I say. “Silly, I know. But it felt wrong to just go on without you. People leave signs and mile markers. I left pictures.” I shrug.

“I wish I’d found them all.”

“They weren’t my best. I had no trouble parting with them.”

We are quiet for a moment, me drawing, John’s eyes closed.

“Do you know the problem with your pictures?” he says after a while.

“What?” I think he’s going to criticize the many I have drawn of him.

“None of them are of you,” he answers.

John does not flirt. He doesn’t say pretty, empty things. He listens, soaking everything in. John’s a doer. An observer. And his thoughts, when he shares them, are like little shoots of green grass on a dry prairie. The flowers on the prickly pears that grow among the rocks.

“I’ve never tried to draw myself,” I muse. “I’m not sure I could. It’s hard for me to summon my own face to my mind’s eye.”

“I would like a picture of you,” he says, and I am touched by the soft sincerity in his voice. “I would like many pictures of you,” he adds.

“You can look at me whenever you like.” I realize I sound coquettish and cover my mouth, wishing I could take the words back. “You know what I mean,” I amend.

“Not anytime I want.”

“You can look at me now.” I stick out my tongue and pull out my ears, trying to make myself look as homely as I can. John just raises his eyebrows, but the silliness eases the tension that always starts to build inside of me when I’m with him. I sigh, letting it out in a whoosh.

“If I were to draw a picture of myself . . . for you . . . would you want a portrait . . . or a place? Would you want a picture on the trail or perched on Trick? Or bouncing around in this awful wagon?” I ask.

“All of those would be just fine.”

I shake my head and laugh.

“I want a picture of you sitting on a barrel in a yellow dress and a white bonnet in the middle of a crowded street,” he says, looking up at me.

It takes me a minute to remember. When I do, my nose smarts and my eyes sting, but I smile down at him.

“I’m gonna sleep now,” he says, closing his eyes.

I spend the next hour sketching the day we met, imagining myself the way he described me, but when I’m done, the arrested expression on my face reflects the way I felt when I saw him standing there beneath the eaves of the haberdashery, his arms full of packages, his stance wide, and his eyes unflinching, watching me. One long gaze, one meeting of our eyes, and I was caught. I haven’t been able to look away since.