She bakes a loaf of lumpy bread in the Dutch oven and sets some dried peas to soaking over the fire. Jefferson and I take one look at each other, and by silent mutual agreement decide to take supper with the Hoffmans. Maybe we can trade for Jefferson’s trout.

We’re heading away when she calls out to us. “Wait!”

She disappears inside the wagon, rustles around, bangs hard against something. She mumbles to Mr. Joyner, who has not come out of the wagon in two days, though no one will say why. I hope the cholera hasn’t returned.

When she climbs out, she’s holding two wax-sealed jars filled with a yellow-orange substance. “Peach preserves,” she explains. She puts one on the table and hands the other to me. “Please share them with the Hoffmans, with my compliments.”

My mouth waters and my eyes sting, because the thought of peach preserves gives me such a pang for Mama that it’s an actual hurt in my chest. I tip my hat at Mrs. Joyner and manage a thank-you.

No one in the company has pie or dumplings, milk or butter. We haven’t had a fresh fruit or vegetable in months. Still, we have a regular potluck, everyone wandering from wagon to wagon to see what’s been cooked up, and we eat until we’re fit to burst.

As the sun sets, we clear a space in the middle of our wagon corral. Two of the Missouri men bring out their fiddles. Then Mr. Robichaud surprises us by fetching his own instrument—a glossy walnut violin that soars over them all. He plays “Hail Columbia” and “My Country ’Tis of Thee,” even though he’s from Canada. Mrs. Robichaud beams with pride as everyone sings along, even me, though I sing softly, so my girl’s voice doesn’t carry.

Then we start dancing, and though I’ve never been one for dancing, there doesn’t seem much to it except twirling a lot and kicking up your heels. I dance with Andy in my arms, then with Olive, and when Jefferson asks me for a spin I almost say no, but the Missouri men are dancing together, and no one is paying them any mind, so away we go.

Jefferson knows as much about dancing as I do. We bump into each other and step on each other’s feet and laugh so hard our guts hurt. Then he asks Therese to dance. Then I ask Therese to dance. Then Jasper asks me, but halfway through our dance, the fiddles suddenly cease, and we go shock-still.

Major Craven has climbed out of the wagon all by himself and is limping toward us, using a thick branch wrapped in rags for a crutch. His shortened leg swings oddly as he hobbles along, and sweat beads on his forehead, but he’s grinning like it’s the best day of his life.