Where the Lost Wander(56)

“At Fort Bridger we can get you a new dress.”

“You already bought me a new dress.”

“Lydia Clarke wore it, and I don’t want you to have to share your wedding dress.”

She starts to smile but bites her lip to hold it back. “I’m done making assumptions. So if you’re saying what I think you’re saying, I need you to ask me, John. And I need you to be real clear. Otherwise, I won’t be able to look at you again for a while, because my heart can’t take it.”

“Will you be my wife, Naomi?” I say the words slowly, and I hold her gaze.

“When we get to Fort Bridger?” she asks, her eyes gleaming.

“When we get to Fort Bridger,” I repeat. “I won’t spend my first night with you with everyone listening. And we’ll have our own wagon and our own supplies for the rest of the journey. I have some money, and if I have to sell every one of my mules, I will. But we will have our own home. Even if it’s on wheels.”

“And you can get all of that at Fort Bridger?”

“That . . . and maybe even a room for a night, away from the train.”

She swallows, her eyes wide, her mouth unsmiling, and for a long moment, she smooths her skirts like she’s soothing herself. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t hesitation.

“I don’t know if I can wait that long,” she says under her breath.

“ka’a,” I moan, falling for it.

Then she is throwing herself at me, entwining her arms around my neck and laughing.

I pretend to stagger beneath her weight and fall into the scrubby grass, taking her with me. A rock digs into my back, and our heads knock together as we tumble. But her lips are on my face, her hips are in my hands, and her happiness is in my chest.

“I love you, John Two Feet Lowry.”

“I love you too, Naomi Many Faces May,” I say, and there is suddenly emotion in my throat, swelling up from her happiness. I have not cried since my mother left me. I didn’t think I still knew how. And I have never told anyone I love them.

“Do you believe me?” Naomi asks, her lips at my ear, her body on top of mine.

“I believe you,” I whisper, and I close my eyes to gain my control.

She kisses me gently, top lip, bottom lip, lips together, lips apart, and I open my eyes to watch her love me. And love me she does.

We don’t emerge from the grass until a good while later, mouths bruised and bodies aching for more. But she’ll be my wife before I take anything else.

NAOMI

John insists on talking to Pa. I tell him I can make my own choices, and I’ll tell Pa myself, but he just shakes his head.

“I make my own choices too, Naomi. And I’ll be speaking to your father.”

The conversation isn’t long, and knowing Pa, it isn’t pleasant, but it isn’t John who comes and finds me when it’s over.

“They won’t look like you,” Pa says. “Your children. That’s what happens when dark marries light. They won’t have your green eyes or your color hair. You need to think about that and what kinda lives they’ll have. They’ll look like him.”

“Well, I guess that’s a good thing. The May line is a little homely.”

Pa snorts, rubbing at the furrow between his eyes and laughing a little.

“You sure?” he asks, shaking his head.

“I’m sure.” Why would I want to stare at my own reflection in my children if I could look at John instead?

“I’m not saying he’s a bad choice. He’s not. He’s strong. Capable. And he seems to want you,” Pa says begrudgingly.

“Well, that’s good,” I say, the sarcasm dripping. My poor pa never was very good with his words. I suppose that is what Ma is for.

“But don’t say I didn’t warn ya when there’s struggles.”

“I won’t, Pa.”

He sighs, a gusty sound that rumbles from his belly. “Does he know what he’s gettin’ into with you?”

“No. And I’d appreciate it if we just keep it between the two of us.”

Pa hoots, shaking his head as the laughter rocks him. “I’m guessin’ he knows, girl. The whole company is on to you. And if he’s smart, he’ll hold on tight. It’ll take a good mule man to tame my girl.” He’s still laughing when he walks away, and I know it’s fondness speaking, so I don’t get too ruffled.



We have reached the Parting of the Ways. One road veers right for Oregon, one veers left for California, and for as far as the eye can see, there are two divergent paths, the space between them ever widening. It’s a beautiful name for a lonely stretch of goodbyes.

“Ten days to Fort Bridger,” Abbott says. “And we’ve got the better of it. Folks heading that way have a desert to travel through.” He points at the ruts we won’t be following. “They call that the Sublette Cutoff. I’ve heard it’s pure misery. Used to be that everyone went to Fort Bridger. But folks are always trying to save time. It’s funny. Ya take a shortcut tryin’ to save time, and ya lose your life. That’s what they call irony, John Jr. Irony.” He waves his finger at John, nodding his head like an old sage.

Abbott has been cautious. Despite my anger at him for moving on when John’s mules were scattered, he has been prudent every step of the way, sometimes more than prudent. The loop to Fort Bridger avoiding the desert called the Little Colorado and the highest ridge on the Overland Trail is easier on both the travelers and the teams, but it adds a good seventy or eighty miles to the distance, and there are some among us who want to brave the cutoff.