His men laugh, and even I can’t help cracking a grin.

The general turns toward Lowrey and Robichaud. “What about it? Some of you look like farmers. There’s wonderful farming in the Willamette Valley. It’s good country for raising families.”

A few women have gathered too—me, Mrs. Hoffman, Lucie, some Mormons. His eyes skim over us like we’re not even here, which is fine by me. I’m bound for California or bust, no matter what he says.

But Frank Dilley jerks a thumb at me. “Better aim your sermon at that one,” he says. “I reckon Georgia there wears the pants in that company.”

Jonas Waters chortles like it’s the funniest thing. “And never have I seen pants worn so finely!” he adds.

The general gives me a puzzled look. My face flushes hot, but I keep my peace.

“I can see you’re all set in your ways,” the general says. “But since you’re a mixed company, with women present, let me warn you: We had a situation here a few weeks ago, where an Indian offered a man three horses in exchange for one of his daughters. The settler joked that if the Indian gave him six, it was a deal. This joke, as it were, at his daughter’s expense, nearly led to bloodshed, when the Indian came back with the horses.”

“That must be how the half-breed got hold of her,” Frank says, loud enough for everyone to hear. Jefferson leaps forward, but I grab his arm and yank him back.

“Ignore him,” I tell him. “Dilley’s a toad.”

Jefferson’s jaw is clenched tight, and his eyes flash darkly. For the briefest moment, he looks just like his da.

“He’ll get his in time,” Jasper says.

“I think the time is right now,” Jefferson says, but the fight trickles out of him, and he backs down.

“See what I said about wearing the pants?” Frank haws.

The general goes on for a fair bit, and all the men pay close attention. Except Reverend Lowrey, who keeps glancing my way.

As evening falls, we pack up our gear to depart in the morning. Therese and I are taking clothes down from the laundry line stretched between the Joyner and Hoffman wagons.

“Look at this!” she says in disgust, waving a dark gray stocking at me. “Luther put a hole in it again. Too big to be darned. If he trimmed his toenails once in a while, I wouldn’t have to do so much knitting.”

“I don’t know how to knit,” I admit.

She gapes at me, but she schools her expression quickly. “Well, I would be happy to teach you. No, on second thought . . .” She leans forward and drops her voice. “If you learned, Mrs. Joyner would make you knit your way to California.”