I hope Jefferson’s all right; I hate to think what might happen if he ran afoul of those freebooter brothers or their ilk. I wish I could have caught up with him on the road, but now I find myself hoping he’s still three days ahead. Because anyone sent after me would recognize him just as easily. With luck, he’s practically to Independence by now.

The final note from Joe’s fiddle echoes over the water, dying slow and sweet. The wind on the river is icy cold, colder even than on the road, so everyone gets up and turns in. No one has indicated where I should sleep, so I head back to Peony’s stall and prop myself in the corner. It’s been a long day of hard work, and this is the first time I’ve had a roof over my head at night since leaving home. I’m cold, but I feel safer than I have in weeks, with a full belly to boot. My eyes drift shut.

I startle awake. It’s Fiddle Joe. He hangs a blanket over the side of the stall and walks off without saying a word. I snatch it up. It’s old and threadbare, but after losing everything else, it seems finer than gold.

Morning on the river is one of the prettiest I’ve ever seen, with golden sunshine gleaming on water as smooth as a mirror. Red Jack pokes his head out moments after I do. He yawns and stretches, and he’s untying his pants to relieve himself into the water when he spots me.

“Holy—” he says, jumping in alarm. “You’re up early. Been sitting there the whole night?”

I’m blushing like the girl I am. “I’m an early riser,” I say, turning my back and giving him his privacy.

Joe stumbles out a while later and starts bacon sizzling on the box stove. At the breakfast table I try to return his blanket.

“Naw,” he says. “Everybody ought to have their own blanket.”

I can’t squeeze out my thanks through the tightness in my throat. I have a blanket again, and I didn’t even have to buy it.

The Joyners rise late. While they eat breakfast, I learn what the captain meant by “unskilled labor.” It’s my job to muck stalls every morning, which is no different from my chores back home. At least I go after it with a sure hand.

“Just toss it overboard,” the captain says. “The current washes everything away.” I do as he says, but it gives my belly a squirm to think of drawing our cooking water from the same river.