It’s Mrs. Joyner. Her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows, and her hands are bloody. It’s the first time I’ve seen her without a cap on her head, and her wet blond hair is plastered to her face. Her own belly swells as she stands on the back of the wagon bed, wearing the grimmest expression.

“I’m s-sorry,” I stutter, not knowing what I’m sorry for just yet.

She rubs sweat from her forehead with her upper sleeve. My gaze jumps between her bloodied hands and the wagon bed, which is silent and still.

“Not your fault,” she says softly. “Reverend came to get me right after you left. Mrs. Lowrey . . .”

I want to tell her it’s all right, that I understand, that she can speak plain to me, woman to woman. Her water broke. Her laboring came.

“. . . she fell sick last night, I gather. She strained all alone for hours. Reverend didn’t get help at first because he said the outcome would be God’s will.”

“What?”

The reverend jumps up at my voice. The Bible dangles from his arm like a piece of overripe fruit. Fingers jammed between the pages mark the passage he was reading. His face is a swirl of worry and hope. I don’t know how he can hope. Surely he hears the silence.

Mrs. Joyner shakes her head.

The reverend opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.

“I came too late,” she says. “I’ll tell the others. See if there’s someone who can come stay with you.”

“The babe?” he squeaks out.

“I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t respond, just stands frozen. For the briefest moment, his features twist with gut-wrenching pain.

Then he hefts his Bible and stalks off. “Blessing be to God!” he shouts at the top of his lungs. “Even the father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the father of mercies and the God of all comforts, who comforteth us in all our tribulation . . .”

“Can you help me down?” Mrs. Joyner says in a quiet voice.

“Yes, ma’am.”

I offer her my hand, and she practically falls into my arms. I’m lucky I don’t topple under her weight.

She steps away from me as soon as she’s steady on her feet and wipes her hands on her skirt, as if wiping away my touch. “I need to get back to Mr. Joyner,” she says, her voice trembling. “He still hasn’t recovered. This morning’s exertions nearly undid him.”

She staggers, and I move to steady her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “Let me help you.”

She stiffens, as if to fight me, but common sense prevails. “Thank you.”