Where the Lost Wander: A Novel(62)

Hanabi hands her sleeping daughter to Naomi, who takes her in surprise. Then Hanabi sinks down on the other side of the yoke Winifred is using for a seat and extends her arms toward Wolfe.

“Tell her I will feed him, John Lowry,” Hanabi says to me. “I have more milk than my daughter can drink.”

Winifred hands her son to Hanabi, her eyes gleaming in the tepid light, and Hanabi, without any self-consciousness, opens her robe and moves the child to her breast, guiding her nipple into his mouth. He latches on without difficulty, becoming almost limp in her arms, his cheeks working, his body still.

Winifred weeps openly, one hand pressed to her mouth and one to her heart, and Naomi cries with her, holding Hanabi’s daughter, her eyes on the little boy, who suckles like he’s starving, first one breast and then the other, until he falls into a milk-induced slumber, releasing the nipple in his mouth. Hanabi closes her robe and sets the babe against her shoulder, rubbing Wolfe’s small back. He burps with a satisfied rumble, and Winifred smiles through her tears as Hanabi lays him back in her arms.

I have completely forgotten myself, struck by the scene and caught up in an intimacy I should have turned away from. I am embarrassed by my own presence, but Hanabi looks up at me without censure or discomfort as she takes her child from Naomi’s arms.

“Tell the mother I will feed him again at dawn, before we part. She must eat and rest and let her body make milk for him.”

I repeat her words to Winifred, who nods, unable to stem the flow of her tears. She tries to speak, but for a moment she can only cry. Hanabi seems to understand, though she looks to me for reassurance that all is well.

“She is grateful, Hanabi. She has suffered greatly and never complains,” I say, battling back my own emotion.

“I saw this . . . in my dreams,” Winifred stutters between sobs. “I saw another woman . . . an Indian woman . . . feeding him, and I . . . was afraid. But I am not afraid anymore.”





13





FORT BRIDGER


JOHN


We part with Hanabi and the Shoshoni early the next day, restored both in strength and in spirit. We travel a barren fifteen miles and close out the day by crossing the waters of Blacks Fork, which Abbott and the emigrant guide claim we will cross three more times before reaching Fort Bridger.

“It’s nothing like the Green. Not at any point. Just a little wadin’ is all. Shouldn’t need to unload the wagons or worry about being swept away,” Abbott reassures us as we make camp on the other side, but I have begun to fret about other things. I am weighed down by the unknown and by my inability to prepare for it. I want to go on ahead. The entire train can’t sit at Fort Bridger while I pull together an outfit—wagon, riggings, ropes and chains, spare parts, and two months’ worth of supplies—and pause to marry Naomi. I need time, and if I travel the final thirty miles with the train, I won’t get it. I talk to Abbott, who is agreeable to the idea, if not optimistic.

“I don’t remember there bein’ much at Fort Bridger. It ain’t like Laramie. It’s a good place to stop and catch your breath. Good water and grass and timber to burn, and a much smoother route than the Sublette, but you might be disappointed by what you find.”

My uneasiness grows, and I quietly curse him for not speaking out before now. Fort Bridger is a major point on the trail. I’d expected a variation of Fort Laramie where everything a traveler could want was in ready supply, even if it cost extra. Extra I can handle, but I can’t work with nothing. When I pull Naomi aside, telling her my plan, she listens without comment, her eyes on mine, her lower lip tucked between her teeth. She needs some convincing.

“Abbott says we’re two and a half days’ travel out of Fort Bridger if we just go steady. If I take my mules and the dun, I’ll make it in one. It’ll give me a day to put things in order. Now that we’ve crossed the Green and the driest stretches, there shouldn’t be anything the wagons can’t handle.”

“I’m not worried about us,” she says. “But . . . if you must go . . . will you take Wyatt with you? He won’t slow you down, and I’ll feel better if you’re not alone.”

“If your folks don’t mind, I’ll take Wyatt,” I agree. If I take Wyatt with me, he can ride one of my mules and lead a string of three behind him, and I won’t have to move my animals in one long line. I don’t dare leave them behind with the train. Mr. Caldwell seems to have resigned himself to my presence, but I don’t trust him, and I don’t want to burden the Mays with their care.

The following morning, before the birds even wake, I kiss Naomi, who insists on seeing us off. I promise her that it’ll all work out and I’ll see her in two days.

“You aren’t going to run out on me, are you?” she asks, a smile in her tired voice. “’Cause I’ll come after you. I can be mean when I want something.”

“She can too, John. Meaner than a wet hen,” Wyatt teases, but he’s chipper this morning, excited for the break from the monotony, and he urges Samson forward without looking back. “Let’s go, mules, giddyap.” He clucks his tongue and digs in his heels, and Budro, Gus, and Delilah move out behind him.

I swing up in my saddle, but Naomi looks so wistful, standing with her lantern in the cool predawn, the red blanket Hanabi gave her wrapped around her shoulders, that I lean down and kiss her again.