The Hunger(63)

“Ill? He must be powerful sick not to come back for us . . .”

“The doctor says he’ll recover. With the weather starting to shift, I didn’t want to wait any longer.”

The weather was starting to shift; funny, Mary hadn’t noticed until he mentioned it. It had happened in the past handful of days. Even the hot afternoons had lost their edge and the earlier sunsets brought longer, cooler evenings.

And that meant winter wasn’t far behind.

Two nights earlier, she’d sat up late with her brother William. They lay on their backs on the cool ground to look up at the stars, a favorite pastime back in Springfield. The wide black sky, the vastness that usually filled her with optimism, made her feel small and fragile that night. Nature had shown them these past few months how vulnerable they were. Her brother must’ve felt the same, for he asked Mary if she thought they were going to die.

The question was on everyone’s mind so she wasn’t surprised, but it filled her with rage. Not at the unfairness of it, for she understood that life was deeply unfair, and, truly, had never expected otherwise. But it angered and astonished her that fear and hopelessness had so easily taken root among them. Mary believed in certain fundamental truths, and one of them was in life’s persistence—in the incredible will within each of us to go on, to thrive, to improve, and, when tested, to do good.

As the crowd shifted, she found her way next to Stanton with renewed determination, despite the fact that so far he had yet to look in her direction.

Beneath the burble of the crowd, she was able to speak softly, so no one else could hear. “You came back for us.”

“I said that I would, didn’t I?” He smiled grimly as he started to loosen the rope rigging on the nearest mule.

Had he come to forget about her these weeks away, or worse, come to believe that she had led the general persecution against Tamsen? After all, it had been Mary who brought the rest to the scene of Halloran’s murder. If he believed that about her, she couldn’t blame him. But she could set him straight. Not because she needed his favor but because she wanted it.

Unfortunately, it didn’t seem he was going to give her that chance, which of course made her desire it all the more.

With hardly a glance in her direction, he turned back to address the group. “If everyone is ready, we can distribute the rest of these provisions. No pushing, or arguing. It’s all been sorted according to the amount of money you put in. Let’s start with the Murphys . . .”



* * *



? ? ?

THE PARTY QUIT EARLY for the day. Everyone was anxious to have their first proper meal in weeks, to celebrate their salvation. Mary wasn’t ready to celebrate, not until she’d had a chance to say her piece. She kept an eye out for Stanton, hoping for a few minutes alone, but he was constantly surrounded by members of the wagon train intent on hearing about the trail that lay before them or about Sutter’s Fort—at this point, a destination as elusive and chimerical as heaven. She wasn’t sure if he was really that busy or trying to avoid her.

But she wouldn’t give up. It simply went against her nature. Her father had called her stubborn more times than she could count, and perhaps about that he’d been right.

So she waited on the periphery, behind the well-wishers and the curious. She would be patient. Finally, he saw her hovering just out of earshot. He ducked to say something to the two Miwoks before striding out to meet her.

“Will you speak to me, Mr. Stanton?” she asked. Her voice sounded high and nervous to her ears.

He only nodded.

They walked side by side, and Mary felt she might burn away. She was overwhelmed by relief and terror all at once. She had prayed for him to return, prayed that she would be given a chance to set things right between them, and now that he was here, she did not know what to say to him.

“I feared—” She stopped, overwhelmed. “I feared I would never see you again.”

“Perhaps that would have been for the best,” he said, his voice low and hard.

She reeled as though she’d been slapped in the face. “Can you really hate me so much?”

“Mary.” His voice softened.

“I don’t see how you can.” She pushed on defensively. “You have hardly given me any chance at all to prove myself to you. We haven’t even spoken since—”

“You don’t need to prove yourself to me, or to anyone. I don’t hate you, Mary. Not in the slightest.” At this, a broad smile spread over his face, though he attempted to tuck it away.

Now she thought she must be dreaming—perhaps hunger and exhaustion had gotten the better of her, because she couldn’t make sense of his words.

“Well, if you don’t hate me, then why have you been avoiding me?” she insisted. “Why did you say it would have been for the best never to see me again? I fear that either I do not understand you, Mr. Stanton, or you do not understand yourself.”

“More likely the latter,” he said, his smile melting into a rueful half grin. “You see, it’s not at all that I hate you but that I fear I quite like you. That’s what keeps me away, if you must know. But I can’t have you off thinking badly of me.”

“Me thinking badly of you?” Now it was her turn to smile. “I have thought of little else but you, though none of the thoughts were bad.” She was shocked by her own boldness and tempted to cover her mouth to keep a surprised laugh from bursting out.