“Thet’d be the cyclone he went through. They got them thangs on the coast. Most times they ain’t thet big, but the one he saw was a whopper. There was another like it jest a few years ago,” her aunt said, as usual, anticipating her question. “He weren’t talkin’ thangs up, it were thet bad. An’ they was inland a good piece. It were worse on th’ shore, the sea done run up till a lotta them houses on the coast was so deep in water they was washed off clean away. Sensible folks git th’ bejabbers offen th’ coast when one of them thangs comes in.” Then she snorted. “But sensible folks wouldn’ be livin’ thar in the fust place, iffen y’all arst me.”

She tried to imagine it, and couldn’t. And she could not blame her Great-Granny for refusing to live where such things could happen.

After that dramatic incident, Pavel and Sally did stay the winter, however. They stayed to help with the recovery after the cyclone, winter set in, which would have made hard traveling, and then there seemed no good reason to move on until spring, not when their host was so grateful to them that he gave them the best room in his house and feted them all winter long.

Then, in the spring, they bought a stout wagon, provisioned themselves, and headed west, into Tennessee, where everyone said there was cheap land for sale. This, Pavel noted, was a far cry from “land for the taking,” but it was land that was in the midst of settlements, villages, towns, and even cities, and they had already discovered that the money they had brought with them was worth more in the United States than it had been at home.

And so, we traveled without incident through the spring, until we arrived at a spot that was for sale by the government that called to both our hearts.

Little did we know it was not the land that was calling to us. It was the Cherokee chief, Eagle Sight, who became my dearest friend in this country.

She became aware that her aunt was gently poking her foot. “Supper,” Jinny said. “Told y’all thet y’all’d git lost in thet book agin.”

Rain still drummed on the roof, and much as she hated to admit it . . . Jinny had been right. If she’d been given leave to go to the Holcrofts, she’d have arrived soaked and shivering. Maddie probably would have insisted that she at least sit by a fire until she got dry. Then she’d have had to build a fire for Anna to sit by. And she’d make hot tea. All of this would have put Maddie out, and none of it would have allowed her to be alone with Josh.

And conditions would have been worse when she returned, because the trek was uphill. Longer, more chance of slipping and falling, and certainly more time in the rain. Why did Aunt Jinny have to be so very right?