I don’t sing. My voice has all the beauty of a honking goose, and the words of the hymn weaken my control. I don’t cry either; I can’t. I cared for Lucy, cared for Abigail, but grief is draining. I am hoarding my strength and my stamina for life, and I will not spend it on death. Gotta get your mind right, Naomi May. If all I have is my will, then I must use it well. For Ma. For Wolfe. For my brothers. And for John Lowry, who is still very much alive.
And so I turn away from the shallow grave when the words are spoken and the song is sung, my teeth clenched and my spine straight.
“How can you be so cold, Naomi?” Elmeda Caldwell wails at my back. “You tend to a man who isn’t family when my Lucy lay dying?”
I say nothing. I do not defend myself because it is the truth. But Lucy had her mother. Lucy had her husband. And John has no one but me. I know whose death will break my spirit, and it isn’t Lucy Caldwell’s. But I turn back to embrace Elmeda, preparing myself for her clinging sadness, girding myself against her need. I am tired. I washed my hands and face, straightened my hair, and changed my apron before joining the others by the grave, but I know I look as depleted as I feel. Elmeda pushes me away, her hands on my shoulders like gnarled claws, and I immediately step back, oddly relieved by her rebuff. Anger is good. Anger is better than fear; anger is better than grief. I let Ma console her. Mr. Caldwell sputters his condemnation at my back, but I return to John and to the hope that still lingers.
I wake to darkness but sense the dawn. The camp will soon wake too, and we have to move on, whether or not death has further winnowed our numbers. I have slept three hours, maybe four, but it is all I can afford. John is breathing deeply beside me, his hand still wrapped around mine. I want to weep with relief. With joy. His condition is much improved. He is going to be okay.
I ease myself up, careful to not disturb him. His skin is cool, his limbs relaxed. I whisper a grateful prayer to the God of my mother, to the power she swears is present in all things, and I leave John’s side, convinced that I have done what I can do, and he will not slip away. He won’t leave me. He promised he wouldn’t, and John Lowry strikes me as a man who keeps his promises.
When breakfast is done and the sun is pressing us onward, I send Webb to keep watch over him with firm instructions to tell me when he wakes. The entire camp is in a state of weary dishabille, children crying, animals braying, entire families brought low by disease and discomfort. Abbott is making the rounds, assessing who can move on and who cannot and putting out the word that the train will move out by noon, regardless. Homer Bingham needs someone to drive his team, another family has decided to return to Fort Kearny and wait for another group, and Lawrence Caldwell is demanding we leave immediately or we’ll all be stricken down. Elmeda has not left her bed in the back of their wagon, but she is not racked with cholera; she has simply given up.
When I check on her, she doesn’t speak to me but lies with her eyes closed and her hands folded. She won’t respond to anyone, though her eyes flutter beneath her lids, and occasionally tears slide down her cheeks. Her son, Jeb, has retreated to the comfort of caring for their animals, and Mr. Caldwell has taken his frustration out on anyone unfortunate enough to cross him. He is throwing gear into the wagons, muttering to himself, rumpled and raging.
“It’s your fault she’s sick, Widow Caldwell,” he snaps at me as I climb down from his wagon.
“How so?” I say, my voice level.
“Have you forgotten Daniel so easily?”
“Daniel’s gone, and I can’t bring him back, Mr. Caldwell.”
He wags his finger at me, jutting out his chin. “You’re glad. You’ve already hitched your wagon to Lowry like we never even mattered.”
Lawrence Caldwell is grieving, but there isn’t a soul in camp who isn’t. He leaves me hollow with his trembling chin, his shaking jowls, and his judgments. Elmeda too. If she dies, it will be because she is desperate to escape him. It is an uncharitable thought, and I bite my tongue so it doesn’t get loose. I turn away, feeling his eyes on my back as I make my way back to our wagons. I can hear Wolfe crying and know I’ve left Ma to fend alone for long enough.
I rush to gather blankets and dishes, scrubbing and folding and packing as quickly as I can, my eyes constantly straying to John Lowry’s tent. Sleep, especially now that the worst has passed, is the best thing for him, but I’ve just about decided to check on him again when he and Webb make their way from a cluster of willow trees rising up from the banks of the shallow creek.
John is pale, his eyes hollow, the angles of his face sharper, but he is upright, he is dressed in fresh clothes, and he is walking toward me, his arm slung around Webb.
“Here he is, Naomi,” Webb crows. “He’s wobbly as baby Wolfe, but he says he’s not sick no more. He even took a bath.”
I rush to them, my eyes searching John’s face, and he smiles a little, though it is more a grimace than a grin.
“Do you think you can travel?” I ask. “Mr. Abbott says we have to move out. We’ve lost so much time. Ma says we can make you a bed in Warren’s wagon. He’s well enough to walk along beside the oxen. Wyatt and Will can drive your mules, especially now that you’ve got less than you did.”
“I can ride.”
“No. You can’t.” I shake my head. “Not yet. Riding in the wagon may not feel like rest, but it’s the best we can do. One day. Maybe two. Please, John.”
He wants to argue, I can see it in the strain around his lips and the furrow on his brow, but he doesn’t. I doubt he has the energy to take me on. He can barely stand.
“I need to gather my animals. I think I can string them to the wagon, now that there are fewer. Will can ride Dame . . . at least for today.”
“I can round ’em up for you, John,” Webb says. “I’ll get Will to help me.”
“I’ll do it, Webb. But you can come too. Walk beside me, like you’re doing now. Keep me steady,” John says. “We’ll bring them in together.”
“John, let the boys go. You need to sit,” I insist.
“Naomi.” John’s voice is low, his eyes soft. “They spook easy, and I need to attend to them. They’ve been neglected for two days.”
I watch the two of them pick their way slowly across the circle and beyond to the line of willow trees that obscures the view. Five minutes later, Webb is back, and John isn’t with him.
“Pa!” Webb hollers. “Pa! Mr. Lowry’s mules are gone. Kettle and Dame too. They’re all gone. We found their picket pins. All of ’em. They got pulled out, like someone went to gather them and the animals got spooked or something.” His little nose is running, and tears stream down his dirty cheeks. “We looked all around. John whistled for Dame, and she didn’t come.”
“Where is John now?” I gasp.
“He doesn’t want to quit looking, but he’s awful weak. He told me to come back and tell Mr. Abbott.”
My brothers, Pa, and Abbott fan out, searching in an ever-widening circle, but within fifteen minutes they all return to camp without the animals in tow. John is with them, but he is gray faced and bent over, and Mr. Abbott insists he sit before he collapses. It is a testament to his condition that he obeys, and I run to him, trying not to cry.