At noon we cross Ford Creek. The grass is still good, and we let the animals graze for an extra half hour before continuing. By nightfall we reach the bluff above the Raft River and make camp. I spend extra time with Peony, making sure she’s fed and watered and thoroughly brushed. Since the Major joined our wagon, the families have started taking meals together. I’m still in no mood for company, so I put off joining them until I see the Robichauds seated around the fire. The Robichauds have always treated me well, no matter what I’m wearing. Lucie is the one who said I could be whoever I want.

“Saved some for you,” the Major says, handing me a tin cup with beef and onion soup.

“Thanks,” I mumble, and go sit beside Lucie.

“I’m glad you came back,” she says to me.

“There’s nowhere else to go out there,” I say.

“No, I mean, tonight. Tomorrow morning is our parting of the ways.”

I choke on my food. “What?”

“We’ve decided to head north for Oregon.”

“But why?”

Mr. Robichaud wipes his mouth with a kerchief. “General Loring made some good points yesterday. We’re looking for a better country to raise our sons. California sounds lawless and dangerous.”

“The world is dangerous,” I say, my voice shrill. Lucie puts a gentle hand on my knee, which makes me feel worse.

“It is,” Mr. Robichaud says. “Our family has made it this far without any losses.” He nods toward the Major, or maybe the Joyners. “Things are going to get worse before they get better for this group. With the cruelest part of the road ahead, we don’t want to push our luck.”

“But what about the gold?”

He puts an arm around his wife. “Family is more important than gold.”

But you’re my family, I want to say. They showed me kindness when no one else did. They kept my secret without a second thought.

I get to my feet and start undoing the buttons of Lucie’s yellow calico skirt. Several of the men avert their gazes. From the direction of the Missouri wagons comes a high whistle.

“Stop, please,” Lucie says.

“I’ve got on trousers,” I say.

“No, I want you to keep it. You’re so pretty in it.”

“I can’t!” I say. “It’ll just remind me of you and make me sad every time I see it.” I kick my way out of it, yank it up off the ground, fold it messily, and shove it into her hands. “Sorry I don’t have time to wash it.”

“It’s fine,” Lucie says.