But there’s an agitation about him. He opens his mouth to say something, closes it. He runs a hand through his tight beard, clears his throat, tries again. Finally, he asks: “Did Hiram kill Reuben and Elizabeth?”

I can hardly force the word past the lump in my throat. “Yes.”

He nods, as if he’d already worked out the answer. “I expected he’d do something foolish someday.”

“Why?” Tears sting my eyes, and my hands clench so hard that my nails dig into my palms. “What are you talking about? I don’t understand!”

Free Jim settles a giant hand on my shoulder and clasps it. “Do you have a place to stay?”

“Sure,” I lie. I can’t bring myself to tell him I lost most of his money and all of his shirts.

“I have some things to do. Meet me tomorrow at the Hawthorn Inn. It’s two blocks north of the square. Noon. We’ll talk.”

“Okay.” I almost beg him not to go. I’m not ready to be alone again.

He tips his hat to me. “Until tomorrow, then.”

I watch his back as he walks away, and I’m unhitching Peony before I realize I forgot to ask him about Jefferson.

Noon tomorrow can’t come soon enough. I spend the next hours meandering through town, searching the face of every stranger, hoping to find Jefferson, worrying I’ll run into the brothers instead. Evening falls, and I head out of town as the clouds break open, a coral sunset lighting up the western horizon.

The first empty spot suitable for camping is nearly a mile from the town proper. Tree stumps are everywhere, jutting out of the muddy ground like grave markers. But there are no trees; everything has been chopped down for firewood and wagons. I lie down in the open beneath the stars, and I let the sound of chirruping crickets and the scent of a hundred campfires lull me to sleep.

The next morning I make a circuit of all the groups forming up to head west. There are at least a dozen companies, each larger and more sprawling than the last.

I pass a woman bent over an honest-to-goodness box stove, and something about her makes me pause. She turns to grab a wooden ladle, and I glimpse her face. It’s Mrs. Joyner!

Somehow, she convinced someone to unload that stove for her. Certainly not Mr. Joyner, who I’ve never seen carry anything heavier than a cigar. I raise my hand to wave, surprised at how glad I am to see her safely arrived, but I flash back to her prim mouth and hard eyes as she gave me the good riddance. I let my hand drop and slink away before she can spot me. That’s one wagon train where I won’t be welcome.