Mr. Joyner offers many expressions of gratitude, as well as a few coins. After taking care of the animals, we go inside and find a cozy, warm cabin that smells of dried apples and wet soot. We sit around a plank table beside a stone hearth. The table’s centerpiece is a wooden vase, filled with wrapping-paper flowers dyed yellow, and I swallow against the sudden sting in my throat.

The tiny slave girl brings a tray of salt pork and onions, which isn’t nearly as tasty as Fiddle Joe’s cooking but still hits the spot. The men trade news, most of it focused on the gold in California and the settlement in Oregon territory. When the table is cleared, the old man and his slave drag a feather mattress out from the bedroom and place it before the hearth.

“I reckon you and your family can sleep here tonight. Your hired hands can have the back porch, and your boy can make do in the barn.”

Mrs. Joyner bristles. “He is not our boy. He’s traveling with us temporarily.”

I don’t understand how that woman can be so hot and cold, so kind one moment and so uppish the next. But I know better than to stay where I’m not wanted, so I excuse myself and slip into the barn.

“Looks like I’m sleeping with you tonight, girl,” I say to Peony. “Just like always.”

I’m so tired it’s only a few minutes until I drift off. A whisper startles me awake.

“Mr. McCauley?” Mrs. Joyner’s voice.

Lantern light pools around me, and I tense up in my bed of straw, but I don’t turn over. “What?” Maybe she wants her blanket back.

“I . . . um . . .” She falls silent.

“Spit it out, ma’am. I’ve very tired.”

She gasps a little, then says all in a rush: “Mr. Joyner says he wants you gone by morning.”

“What?” I flip around to face her. “Why? I haven’t been any trouble. I work hard.”

Her face is even more prim by lantern light, her features sharp and mean. “We face a grave challenge, Mr. McCauley, as we head into the godforsaken wilderness. I must shelter my children, give them a chance at a good life. That means protecting them from . . .” She falls silent again, and a muscle in her cheek twitches.

“From people like me?”

“I am a mother, and a mother knows a runaway when she sees one. I’m sure you understand. Perhaps if you had references . . .”

“Does Mr. Joyner really know you’re here?”

Her lips press into a thin line.

“Pardon my saying, ma’am, but this is hardly the Christian thing to do.”

“I gave you that quilt!”

“And I suppose it made you feel good about yourself. Here, take it back.” I start to untangle myself from it.

She hesitates. Then: “No. It’s yours. But, please . . .”