“Another day. I worked on the Erie Canal when I was about his age.” The man points at Wyatt. “All I did was fix the wagons. I could build one in my sleep.”
“Two days?”
“A day to go get it. A day to assemble. And you’re on your way,” he says.
I shift my gaze to Vasquez, not sure whether I can trust his blacksmith. He shrugs. “You aren’t going to find a better option,” Vasquez says.
“And what do you get in exchange?” I ask, looking back at Jefferson.
“I want the jack.”
Wyatt curses beneath his breath.
“No.”
“You must not want that wagon very bad.” Jefferson chuckles. I don’t laugh with him. I want the wagon, and I don’t know what in the hell I’m going to do. But I would carry Naomi on my back all the way to California with Mr. Caldwell prodding me with a stick before I’d trade Kettle. I’ve already given one jack away to make this journey; I can’t afford to lose another.
“I think your price is too high. Make me another offer,” I say.
He sighs like I’m being unreasonable and folds his arms over his barrel chest. “All right. No jack? Then I want a mule. I want that big black one.” He points to where my animals are cordoned, but I don’t need to look. He wants Samson.
I can tell Wyatt wants to protest. He’s biting his lip and blinking rapidly, but he doesn’t say a word. The hardest thing about the mule business is trading the mules.
I nod slowly. Considering I will be leaving Fort Bridger with a wagon, supplies, and a wife, the loss of one mule isn’t that bad a bargain.
“Do we have a deal?” Jefferson presses.
“We have a deal. When I get my wagon, you’ll get a mule.”
NAOMI
You don’t realize how dirty you are and how worn until you stand in a stranger’s parlor. From the outside, the structure didn’t look like much, a two-story log house tacked onto the end of the trading post, but inside is a different story. A carpet covers the floor, velvet drapes frame the window, and patterned paper covers the walls. A tinkling chandelier hangs above our heads, two rows of fresh candles waiting to be lit.
“Isn’t that something?” Narcissa Vasquez crows, following my gaze. A bright smile colors her voice and creases her pink cheeks. “A train came through last year. And a gentleman traded it for two bottles of whiskey. I think he would have given me two bottles of whiskey just to take it off his hands. His wife passed on not long after they made Pacific Springs. He’d fought with her the whole way about that chandelier. But she wanted it and wouldn’t let it go.” She exhales. “We women want to make the world brighter, don’t we? Even if we have to fight our men every step of the way.”
“Thank you for inviting us into your home,” Ma says, her voice thin. I know she is trying not to cough, and her breaths wheeze in her chest. Neither of us dares move for fear we’ll soil something. When I take a step, dust billows from my skirts.
The moment we rolled in, circling our wagons about a half mile from the rough-hewn walls of the fort, I braced myself for bad news. We made camp and set the animals loose to graze, and all the while I watched for John, preparing myself for a postponement of our plans. But when he finally arrived, Wyatt beside him, his mules strung out behind them, he surprised me again. He confirmed with Deacon Clarke that he would conduct the service and told everyone in the train they were invited to attend.
“Sundown. Behind the fort. Mrs. Vasquez said we’ll even have cake,” Wyatt exclaimed.
Then John told me to come with him and bring my green dress. He said he couldn’t buy me a new one, but everything else was arranged. He told me to bring Ma too. And now we’re standing in Narcissa Vasquez’s pretty parlor, as out of place as two tumbleweeds in a tropical paradise.
“Yes . . . thank you for inviting us into your home,” I repeat, parroting my mother. I have a huge throbbing lump in my throat. I want to marry John. I want that more than anything, but I’m filthy, I’m tired, and for the first time in my life, I’m acutely aware of what I lack.
“It is my pleasure and privilege. I get lonely here,” Narcissa confesses. She is lovely in every way—her dress, her hair, her figure, her smile—and I can only stare, baffled. She presses her hands together and beams at us as though she has a great surprise.
“Now. Come with me. We’ve heated water for a bath. The men can wash in the creek, but a bride must have something special. Her mother too.”
Ma starts to shake her head; she has nothing better to don, and Wolfe is asleep in her arms. “Oh no. No, we couldn’t possibly.”
“Yes. You can,” Narcissa insists. “I will hold the little one. I have a pile of dresses you can choose from. I’m a bit of a runt, but without a hoop beneath the skirt, they will be plenty long. There’s one in particular that I think will do nicely. I wore it when I was expecting my youngest. It has a little more room in it.”
Ma gapes.
“And Naomi. That green dress will be lovely with your eyes. You are so tall and slim. I have a bit of lace you can wear at your throat, if you wish, or you can wear one of mine as well. There might be something there that you love.”
We trail obediently behind her, careful not to brush up against anything as she leads us into a kitchen manned by a Mexican woman who is pouring steaming water into a big cast-iron tub. She swishes her hand in the water, mixing hot and cold, and nods in approval. There are trays of little cakes on the table, iced in white and begging to be tasted. My stomach growls, and Narcissa winks at me.
“The cakes are for the party. But Maria’s set some bread and butter out. There are dried apples and apricots too. And cheese. Please help yourselves.”
“But . . . ,” Ma protests. I know she is worrying about the boys and what they’ll eat while we stuff ourselves on bread and cheese and apricots.
“We will go so you can bathe. Give me the baby,” Narcissa says, extending her arms for Wolfe.
Ma wilts beneath her vehemence and settles him in Narcissa’s arms. She gives us another radiant smile and swooshes out of the kitchen with Maria trailing behind her.
For a moment after the two women leave, Ma and I stand in stunned silence. Then we begin to laugh. We laugh until we are doubled over, we laugh through Ma’s coughing, and we laugh until we cry. And then we cry some more. For the second time in less than a week, we have been embraced by the grace of strangers.
“You bathe first, Naomi. So the water’s clean,” Ma insists, and I cry again because of her sweetness. She pulls up a chair like she did when I was a girl bathing in the washtub on Saturday nights. I always went first then too, before my brothers took their turns and made the water murky with their little-boy dirt.
Ma pours water over my head, rinsing out the soap. It smells like roses, and I’m overcome once more. When it’s Ma’s turn, I do the same for her, turning the tin cup over her sudsy hair until nothing remains but little silver streaks amid the glistening brown.
“Someday my hair will look just like yours,” I murmur, following the stream of water with my palm.
“Yes. But you have a life to live before then. And today is a new beginning.”