There’s no digging in this soil, but there are plenty of rocks, so we bury him in a hastily made cairn. Jefferson finds some crooked pine boughs, which he strips and lashes together into a rickety cross. Reverend Lowrey says a few words, but when he starts to sing a psalm, he chokes up and falls silent. We all stare at the pile of rocks, not sure what to do next.

A small voice rises, high and lovely. It’s Therese, singing “All Creatures of Our God and King.”

Everyone joins in, softly at first, and then with conviction. I hang back as I always do, letting the hymn wash over me. Then I remember that I’m a girl again, and there’s no shame in it, so I pick up a verse and let my voice soar above everyone’s:

“And thou most kind and gentle Death,

Waiting to hush our latest breath,

Oh praise Him! Alleluia!”

After the last note fades, I glance up to see Reverend Lowrey staring at me, looking a little stunned. Maybe I was too loud, like Annabelle Smith back home.

I turn away from him, my neck prickling, as everyone drifts toward their respective wagons. The college men help Jefferson and me tip the Joyners’ wagon upright. Miraculously, nothing’s broken that can’t be fixed. Even more miraculously, Mrs. Joyner’s dining table, the one she always covers with fine china and a checked tablecloth, does not have a single scratch on it, even though it tumbled out of the wagon and landed upside down.

I’m shaking with exhaustion, and I could use something to eat, but I would rather keep busy to avoid the images in my head. “Jefferson, can you help me with the furniture?” The sooner we get loaded, the sooner we can leave this place.

“Leave it behind.”

Mrs. Joyner stands there, holding the hands of her children, one on either side. Olive is carefully matching her mother’s grim expression. Andy’s face is red from crying, and his bottom lip trembles. His chubby hand is fisted at his chest. He’s clutching my locket like his life depends on it.

“Beg your pardon?” Jefferson says.

“It’s junk. Worthless. Take what we need to finish the journey and dump the rest.”

I’m careful to keep the surprise off my face. “Yes, ma’am.”

She pries her children’s hands from her own and strides over to the wagon, where everything lies scattered and spilled. She picks up Mr. Joyner’s rifle and shoves it into my hands.

“Your contract is with me now,” she says. Looking at Jefferson, she adds: “Both of your contracts. Same conditions as before.”

“With back wages to Independence?” I ask.

“To the start of the journey, with no interruption of service.”

“That’ll do.” I pause. “Do we need to . . . shake on it?”