But sometimes there’s no reason not to, is how I would reply.

“He’ll likely make for Iowa or one of the free states,” Craven says. “So I don’t expect him to be a problem.” His face becomes stern. “Some of the Missouri men, former pattyrollers, are talking about organizing a party to go after him, but you should know that this company won’t wait around. If you leave, it’s at your own peril.”

“We’ll keep an eye out,” I say. But I make no guarantees about how hard I’ll look or what I’ll do if I see him. With any luck, Hampton is already half a day’s journey to Iowa. I wish him luck.

The next day the temperature drops, and the rains return. The wagons get stuck in the mud over and over. By evening, Mr. Joyner’s road-o-meter measures only six miles. We make camp, and everyone gathers water and relieves themselves nearby, because it’s too miserable and dark to wander any distance.

With everyone remaining close, I don’t have to stray far for my own privacy. Even in the rain, I linger to enjoy the time alone, taking time to clean my clothes and gear and fill my canteen and take care of my other needs.

Night has fallen when I return, and Jefferson has already spread his blanket under the wagon and stretched out to sleep.

“Aren’t you afraid of Indians?” he says, and his voice has a mocking edge.

“No,” I say, not wanting to get drawn into an argument.

“Why do you spend so much time out there?” he says.

“I don’t know.” I settle my head down onto the saddlebag. I whisper, “Maybe because it’s the only time I don’t have to lie to anyone.”

“You don’t have to lie to anyone.”

“Yes, I really do.”

“Well, you don’t have to lie to me,” he whispers back.

I open my mouth to tell him I know that, and maybe thank him, but two hard thumps sound on the bed of the wagon just above our head.

Jefferson sighs.

Please don’t roll over again, I think.

He rolls over.

I stare at his back a long time.

When we reach the Platte River, my heart sinks, because it’s as wide as the Missouri. But it turns out to be as shallow as a puddle. It’s less of a river, and more of a muddy, rolling ribbon of slurry water and quicksand.

“It’s a mile wide and an inch deep,” Major Craven tells us when the wagons stop.

“Too bad it’s not the other way around,” I say to Jefferson. “Then we could step across it without getting our feet wet.”

He smiles, his first in a long time, and it does my heart good.