I suspect Mr. Joyner is also sick. When the wagon train starts up the next morning, he seems more irritable than usual and frequently excuses himself, disappears for a while, then rushes to catch up.

My stomach is in knots, partly from worry, because anyone could catch the cholera. Anyone. And partly because it’s my monthly time. I have to slip away constantly to rinse my rags and change them for fresh ones. By evening, Jefferson has noticed. “You aren’t sick, are you?” He looks me all over, up and down, as if checking for ticks.

“Not like that,” I say.

“You’d tell me if you were, right?”

“Of course.”

“You shouldn’t go off alone.”

“I have to.”

“Take me with you, at least.”

“No.”

“I’m not worried about Indians, but it’s easy to get lost out—”

“Jeff!” I whisper frantically. “It’s my monthly time!”

He gives me a blank look. Then understanding dawns. “Oh.” I swear, if not for his swarthy skin, he’d be blushing down to the roots of his black hair.

As soon as the wagon train stops for the night, I ride off on Peony to take care of things. It’s too late; I’ve got a bloodstain on my pants. I find a muddy stream and scrub it out as best I can, glad it wasn’t worse.

The sound of moaning reaches me long before I’ve made it back to camp. It’s Mr. Joyner. As I near the wagon, I realize he’s not alone in his vocal misery. The Arkansas men are a regular choir of retching and grunting and begging for clean water. The air is starting to smell peculiar.

Mrs. Joyner hands a cup of water through the bonnet opening, then leans wearily against the back of the box. Her skin is pale, and strands of blond hair stick to her sweaty forehead. I hope she isn’t sick too. If she is, then taking care of the children will surely fall to me. I know what my mama would tell me to do right now.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” I say, intending to offer help.

“Where have you been?” she snaps.

“Had my own business to take care of.”

“From now on your only business is Mr. Joyner. Do you understand me?”

I glare at her.

“I asked you a question, you—”

“Ma’am!” I interrupt, because if she calls me names, it’ll go too far to make better. “I’ve done all my assigned work. If you’re unhappy with it, then you can pay me seven dollars per our agreement, and we can part ways.”

Her mouth opens. Closes. Then: “You can’t do that.”

“If you want to call me names, then it’s time for me to go. I’ll head back to Independence if I need to.”