He looks unconvinced. Major Craven has been considerate and respectful around Mrs. Joyner, but I’ve no doubt that dealing with a sharp-tongued widow is a lot harder than he expected.

“I’ll help carry the barrel,” Tom says.

They head off together.

Jefferson says, “I’ll go find . . . something to burn, I guess.”

“I’ll help you,” I say, but Jasper grabs my arm before I can turn away.

“How are your oxen?” His voice is urgent.

“Down to six. Two are weak. All in all, holding up better than I expected. Mr. Joyner had a good eye for animals, and he bought the hardiest stock he could find.”

“We’ve got four left, and they’re almost played out.”

I nod. He’s not telling me anything I haven’t seen.

“You’ve got the strongest oxen,” he says. “We’ve got the lighter wagon. Our chances are better for getting across the desert in one shot if we combine them. Ten animals, one light wagon.”

He’s right. Except . . . “But the Widow Joyner, she’s going to come down sick anytime now.”

“She can have the back of the wagon when she needs it. We’ll just have to make space. Major Craven says he can walk with his crutch. The rest of us are already walking.”

“Why are you asking me about this?” I say.

“Because you can talk to her, woman to woman, and explain things.”

I frown. Seems to me that men only say things like this when they want to get out of doing something unpleasant. “I’ll tell her the plan, but it’s up to her. I won’t make her do anything she doesn’t want to do.”

“Fair enough,” Jasper says.

I circle around to the rear of Widow Joyner’s wagon and knock on the board like I’m calling at a fancy house.

“Yes” comes her voice.

I pull open the flap. She sits propped up on her mattress, hands wrapped around her belly as if to protect it. Her blond bun is skewed, and her hair is sweat-plastered to her head. Andy and Olive huddle at her feet, looking frightened but too listless from the heat to do anything about it.

“Jasper wants to combine our efforts to cross the desert. Our oxen, his wagon,” I say. “I told him I can’t make any promises, but—”

“Do it,” Widow Joyner says. She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. “The Major and Tom came by for our baking supplies. They hinted at the plan. It makes sense.”

“All right. We’re going to make the shift quickly.”

“Speed is of the essence,” she says with a wan smile.

“We’ll be back to move you shortly.” It’s odd; Mrs. Lowrey was walking alongside her wagon right up until the day she died in childbirth. Widow Joyner hasn’t walked in a week.