Where the Lost Wander: A Novel(7)

“I’m Will,” the middle-size boy says. I will never remember their names, but I nod in greeting.

“I met . . . Naomi,” I offer. I remember her name well enough. As soon as I speak, I wish I hadn’t. To call her by her first name is too familiar, but her family doesn’t seem to notice or care.

“She’s always wanderin’ off,” the littlest boy says. What was his name? Wyatt? No. Webb. Webb May Mules. “She’s probably drawin’ somethin’ somewhere. She wouldn’t make a good mule skinner. She’s as stubborn as the mules, Pa says. But a mule man’s gotta be patient, right, Mr. Lowry?”

“You don’t know where Naomi is now, do you?” Mrs. May asks.

“No, ma’am. It was nigh on an hour ago.” The crush of people is almost stifling, and the disquietude from the conversation with my father becomes fear for the missing Naomi. “But when you find her . . . you should tell her not to go off on her own. St. Joseph is full of rough men and strangers.”

“She’s probably buyin’ paper, Ma. Paper and pencils,” the oldest boy chimes in.

“There’s a general store beside the post where one can buy such things,” I say.

“Rough men and strangers,” Mrs. May repeats, and her eyes rove the crowds. “We feel fortunate to have you traveling with the company, Mr. Lowry. Someone so experienced on the trail will be greatly appreciated.”

“I’m only going as far as Fort Kearny, ma’am.”

She studies me soberly for a moment. “I think you’ll find that’s not far enough, Mr. Lowry.”

It is an odd thing to say, especially considering how difficult those first two hundred miles are on most families. Wet, windy, endless. I feel bad for the woman, for what she is about to endure.

“Pa says it’s two thousand miles to California,” Wyatt, says, somber.

I nod. The family stares at me, chins tipped up, eyes wide, waiting for me to say more. They are a strange bunch. I amend the word immediately. Not strange. Frank. Forthright. They don’t lower their eyes or shift away like they aren’t certain whether they want to be seen with me.

“We meet again, Mr. Lowry,” a cheerful voice calls out. Naomi May, a brown paper parcel in her arms, skips over the rutted street, sidestepping man and beast as she approaches. I look away when she stops at my side as though we are old friends. She doesn’t loop her hand through my arm or brush against me as some women do, wearing innocence on their faces and conniving in their hearts.

“Miss May,” I say, suddenly winded.

“Her name is Mrs. Caldwell, Mr. Lowry,” Webb informs me. “But we just call her Naomi.”

I ignore the sinking sensation in my belly and step back, my gaze swinging back to the elder Mrs. May.

“When do you cross?” I ask, keeping my gaze on the older woman.

“The line is so long . . . but I think Mr. May has secured us a ride across on a scow.” The groove between Mrs. May’s eyes deepens.

“I saw a boat capsize yesterday, Mr. Lowry! The wagon and the people all went into the water,” Webb crows like he enjoyed the show.

“Don’t try to cross on the scows. If you don’t have anyone who knows the river, don’t swim your animals across. Go to Decker’s Ferry. It’s a bit of a battle to get to it through the trees, but there’ll be a pasture and a place for you on the other side to wait until your company has arrived—Whitehead’s Trading Post too, in case there are things you need once you’ve crossed,” I say.

“I’ll tell my husband. Thank you, Mr. Lowry.”

“Will you be crossing on Decker’s Ferry as well, Mr. Lowry?” Naomi chimes in.

“I’ll swim my mules across here. But I’ll be at Whitehead’s Trading Post on the other side tomorrow to assist Mr. Abbott where I can.” I still do not look at her, and I take a few steps back, not wanting to tarry any longer. I am unsettled, and she is unsettling.

“Then we will see you there, Mr. Lowry,” Mrs. May says, inclining her head, and I tip my hat in return. They all watch me go.



Jennie is dozing in front of the broad window, the rays of the setting sun softened by the fluttering white curtains she keeps drawn across the wide panes. Her Bible is in her lap, open, and her palms rest on the pages as if she is not napping but receiving revelation, communing with the written word. The bright light blurs the fine lines on her skin, and for a moment she looks younger than her forty-five years. My father is fifteen years older than she is, but it’s easy to forget the age difference when I’ve never known them independent of one another. She hears me, and her eyes snap open. Closing her Bible, she rises and sets it aside.

“John Lowry,” she says, greeting me.

“Jennie.” I’ve removed my hat as I’ve been taught, and her eyes move to my uncovered head.

“Your hair needs trimming,” she says, as though she’s just noticing and didn’t send my father after me. “I’ll get my shears.”

“I’m leaving tonight,” I blurt, a warning that I’ll not linger long.

“What?”

“I’m going to swim the animals across tonight. I’ll make camp on the other side. If I swim them across in the morning, I’ll waste daylight getting dry.” I have not planned any of this, but the words spill out smoothly, as though I have thought it all through.