“Becky,” she says. “Please call me Becky.”

“All right,” I say. “Becky.”

“I can’t stop thinking about the preacher’s wife.”

“Mrs. Lowrey?”

“Mary. Her name was Mary. A sweet girl. Not much older than you.”

“I didn’t know her very well,” I admit.

“I only spoke to her a few times.” She squeezes my hand. “You were wise to refuse the preacher’s offer. Put off marriage as long as you can.”

I almost ask why, but I’m not sure I want to hear more. Instead, I squeeze her hand in return.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” she says. “Every time I . . .” She puts a knuckle to her mouth and bites down. It’s not a contraction that’s taken her, but something even deeper and more painful. She tries again: “My own ma died giving birth. So did my grandma. And last year, my older sister . . . Every time I lay with my husband, I thought, ‘Becky, you will be dead in nine months.’ I know it’s God’s will that women suffer, that we are saved through faith and childbearing, but sometimes . . .”

“Things will be fine.” I squeeze her hand again, because one of us is shaking and I’m not sure which.

“You don’t know that,” she says. “That’s the problem with pregnancy—you never know. My husband was a gambler. The fool man never considered that the thing he gambled with most was me.”

All through the night, the contractions come slowly. Too slowly. I count the time between them, and they gradually grow closer together. She makes me check her frequently, which I do by candlelight. I can’t see any way a baby will come out.

Between contractions, she dozes. Once, I try to doze too, but as soon as I nod off, a hand reaches under the canvas to tug at my sleeve, and I nearly jump through the roof.

“Is there a baby yet?” Jefferson whispers to me.

“No,” I whisper back.

“Hampton is back!”

“Oh?” I brace myself for what he’ll say next.

“Just walked right into our camp carrying a barrelful of water, like a peace offering. Found the empty barrel back at the sink and filled it up.”

“Good,” I say. Then: “No one is going to . . . I dunno, do something awful to him? Are they?”

“You mean the Major? Not a chance—not with the Missouri men gone. That extra barrelful might really help.”

I loose a breath of relief. Hampton would have had a very different reception a few weeks ago, even from the families. But everything changes on the road to California.

Jefferson is silent, and I think he’s gone away. I drift off again.

“You know, the Major isn’t such a bad fellow,” he says, startling me.

“Oh?” I blink to wake my eyes. “Even after the way he talked about Indians?”