Once the words leave my mouth, I realize they’re not true at all. I’m for California or bust, regardless of loathsome uncles and uppity employers. I suppose I could ride on, catch up with the next wagon train, see if they wanted to hire me. Maybe Jefferson would come too. We might have to leave, anyway, if Mr. Joyner doesn’t get well.

My threat has the desired effect; it takes the spine right out of her so that she seems to shrink into herself. “That’s not necessary. I just . . . With Mr. Joyner under the weather for a bit, I could use some extra help.”

“I have to take care of myself occasionally, but the rest of the time I’m happy to do what I can.”

“Mr. Kingfisher doesn’t go off nearly as often as you do,” she points out.

“I . . . prefer privacy and modesty. Way my mama raised me.”

Her eyes narrow, but she nods. “Do you mind setting up the table for lunch? As close to the wagon as possible. If Mr. Joyner feels better, he may attempt to share our company.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say.

“I want that tablecloth perfectly straight. Mr. Joyner does love a tidy tablecloth.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And could you pick some flowers for the table? In times of sickness and trouble, it’s more important than ever to hold to the tenets of civilized living.”

I sigh. “Yes, ma’am.”

The table is harder to wrangle by myself than I expected. I could use Jefferson’s help, but he’s nowhere to be seen. I can’t rightly complain after disappearing myself.

Once the table is on solid footing, the wings extended, and the braces in place, I spread out her checked tablecloth. I unpack their box of fine china plates and silver and put out four place settings. I wander far afield to find a few clumps of violet prairie clover, and I pick the best ones for the vase.

When I return, Mrs. Joyner is crouched over the cook fire. The Dutch oven sits nestled in the coals. The lid rattles, loosing bits of steam.

“What’s cooking?” I ask.

She looks up, startled, and her eyes are wet and her cheeks blotchy. She seems as helpless as a babe, and I feel sixteen different kinds of sorry for her and for every harsh thing I ever thought about her.

After a sniffle, she takes a rag and lifts the edge of the pot. “Water, I think.”

“No one can mess up water,” I say, and I realize it sounds like an insult, but she just smiles in response.

“Where are Andrew and Olive?” she asks with a start.

I spied them earlier, playing with the Robichaud twins. “They’re fine, perfectly safe, over with our Canadian friends.”