I hop down from the back of the wagon, turn around, and jump five feet in the air—Jefferson is standing right in front of me.

“I thought you were looking for something to burn.”

“And I found it. Right here. This wood’s so dry it ought to burn hot and clean.”

I can’t argue with that. “Let’s get the oxen into the water before we move them to the other wagon.”

All we do is unyoke them, and they rush into the water of their own accord. Once they taste it, they low pitifully enough to break your heart into a thousand pieces, but they drink up.

Therese and her little brothers return carrying three large bundles of cut grass. “Vati says these are for your animals.” She and Jefferson exchange a furtive look. The three of us walk together every single day, and she and Jefferson still talk to each other casually, though they’re careful not to get too close. So far, her father hasn’t made a fuss.

“Thank you,” I say. “We’ll put them in the wagon.”

“No, we can load it.” She leads her brothers off, casting another longing glance Jefferson’s way. I don’t blame her; he’s become quite a sight. His thick black hair curls slightly at the nape, framing a strong jaw—inherited from his Irish da—that balances his sharp cheekbones perfectly. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing muscled forearms burnished dark with sunshine.

Therese’s eyes catch mine.

“I’m ready,” someone says.

I turn around. Widow Joyner stands in the back of her wagon, ready to topple over the edge. The children’s heads pop up behind her like prairie dogs.

I hurry over to help. So does Henry Meek. Together, we carry her to their wagon and raise her gently inside. Olive clambers over the backboard to be with her mother. Andy reaches up with his arms, so I lift him and give him a quick snug before putting him beside his sister.

“What do you want from the wagon?” I ask Mrs. Joyner.

“Food and water,” she says. “And the small trunk—the one with my initials. Nothing else.”

I gather all the supplies, but I grab her red-checked tablecloth too. I waste a precious moment gazing at the dining table, silently saying good-bye.

Cracks splinter the air as Jefferson attacks the Joyners’ wagon with an ax. The Major feeds the pieces into his fire to bake his bread. I run over to take one last reading from Mr. Joyner’s road-o-meter.

“Sixteen hundred eighty-seven,” I say.

“What’s that?” asks Jefferson.

“The number of miles this wagon has traveled since Independence.”

“Is that all? I was worried it might be a lot.”

“We aren’t done yet,” I point out.