As we cross, the rising suns burns through the last of the gauzy clouds, finally revealing the far shore. The water between here and there is busier than the busiest town. I count three more steamboats, with smoke from still more rising around the river bend. We steer among flatboats—too many to count—and tiny rowboats that are clustered like gnats between them. We even pass a tiny raft containing two boys with straw hats and fishing poles.

As we approach the mud-churned riverbank, Captain Chisholm leans over and says, “You’ll want to go north along the river until you reach Cape Girardeau. You can go west from there, but the most popular route is to continue north to St. Louis and then head westerly.”

I picture it like Free Jim’s map and try to memorize it, but I’m not sure it will do any good. The Mississippi River is so much broader and murkier than the twisting blue line I saw. Turns out, the great wide world doesn’t look anything like a flat little map.

I reach under my shirt and grab the locket, but instead of thinking of Mama like I usually do, Jefferson springs to mind, and it’s a punch to the gut how quick and easy and clear I imagine those keen dark eyes and that wide, serious mouth. I wish I could poke at his quiet ways and get a quick grin out of him, just like always. Tell him about my journey so far and hear about his.

Ask what exactly he meant by that mealymouthed proposal. Marrying for the sake of traveling convenience seemed like a fool-headed notion at the time, but now I can’t get it out of my mind.

Trust someone, Mama said. Not good to be as alone as we’ve been. Your daddy and I were wrong. . . .

Floating down the river has given me plenty of time to ponder, and I’m not sure Mama was right. I wouldn’t be in this heap of hurt if Daddy hadn’t been so trusting. Still, I can’t help thinking about Jefferson and about how, in California, we could start all over; maybe even build up something great.

What if Jefferson didn’t make it? What if he’s not waiting for me in Independence after all? Suddenly, it feels as though I’m falling into a mining pit, with no gold and nothing at the bottom but dark forever.

By midday my back and shoulders ache from unloading the Joyners’ wagon and furniture. The wagon must be reassembled and reloaded, but Captain Chisholm’s contract with them has officially ended, and Mr. Joyner plans to hire respectable workers to help with the journey to Independence. In the meantime, Fiddle Joe calls out from the roof of the boat: “Victuals is ready, for them that’s hungry.”