When we arrive, the dogs lie panting in the shade of the wagon, not bothering to stir. Becky relinquishes her spot to the Hoffmans, and I’m more than a little relieved to hand Doreen over and drop the candlesticks inside the wagon bed. The oxen groan when we whip them forward.

Still so far to go. Everyone is weak, moving slowly, feet dragging through the dust. Our lips are cracked, our eyes swollen, our skin bright with sunburn. Waiting for the Joyner baby cost us dearly, but maybe not so much as our dash to rescue the Hoffmans in the full heat of midday. I don’t know how we’ll make it.

After a mile of slow plodding, the Major pulls the wagon to a stop. “If we don’t lighten the load, the oxen will die. How about we put the children on Peony and Sorry and let them ride?”

I stare at him, puzzled. “‘Sorry’?”

“Ain’t that the name of Jefferson’s horse? Sorry mare.”

“Sorrel mare,” Jefferson says.

“Well, she’s awful sorry looking, if you ask me.”

I laugh, though it sounds more like a wheeze.

“We have been saving the horses in case we need them,” Jefferson says.

No, I saved my horse because I couldn’t bear to lose one more thing from my life before. “And now we need them,” I say, staring at Peony’s ribs and drooping neck. “Oh, Peony, my sweet girl.”

Peony snorts and tosses her head when we put Carl and Doreen in her saddle, but with the children riding, the wagon moves a little faster.

Becky Joyner walks beside me for a spell, her tiny daughter swaddled in her arms. I can’t believe how quickly she’s on her feet after such a hard labor. Or maybe riding in the shade for so long put her in better shape than any of us.

“Have you given her a name?” I ask, even though it hurts to talk around my swollen tongue.

She shakes her head. “Not until she’s lived long enough to earn one.”

“All right.” Some families are like that, especially during hard times. My baby brother never got a name.

“Listen, Lee, I said some things to you. In the wagon, when I was in my way. About being married and having babies and . . .” Her voice trails off.

“You did.”

“They weren’t proper,” she says. “And I didn’t mean them.” Her finger traces a soft circle on the baby’s forehead.

“She’s so beautiful,” I say, peering over at her bundle. She’s been a good baby on this first day of her life, with wide-clear eyes and little fuss, which is a wonder given this godforsaken heat. Unlike her brother and sister, she’s dark-haired.

“I shouldn’t have complained. I ought to face my lot with faith and courage.”