drive the wagon to the festival as soon as Simon returned. Clearly disappointed but submissive to her grandmother’s demands that she help entertain Hope, Meg sat down before the fireplace and enticed Hope to build a tower with an assortment of wooden building blocks.
Margaret Leighton paused at the door. “Now remind Simon he must take the north branch of the pike. We don’t want you two floundering through the woods looking for us!”
With a crack of the buggy whip above the horses’ heads they were gone.
Nearly two hours later Simon still had not come. Watching Meg fight back tears of disappointment as she looked anxiously at the darkening sky outside, Gen finally said, “Get Hope bundled up, Meg. I’ll get the wagon and we’ll go check on your father.”
At that moment, the doorbell rang. A message bearer handed Gen a note that read, “Delayed with family. Needed here. Please go on. Will catch up if at all possible.”
“But we don’t know how to get there,” Meg protested slightly.
“We don’t need to know how to get there,” Gen reminded her. “We’ve been watching a stream of wagons head out of town all day long. There will be a trail almost as wide as a village of Dakota leaves when they are following the buffalo!” She headed for the door. “I’ll hitch up the wagon and be back in a moment.”
Twenty-seven
Hide not thy face from me in the day of trouble; incline thine ear unto me: in the day when I call answer me speedily.
—Psalm 102:2
Lost. It was absurd, Gen thought. She was half Dakota Indian. How could she have missed following a clear path through the woods? Just because the wind had begun to fill in the furrows made by the other partygoers was no excuse. Just because it was nearly dark was no excuse either. They had crossed the bridge and taken the fork to the north, just as Mother Leighton said. But now, as she sat contemplating the woods all around them, Gen began to doubt. Could Mother Leighton really have said to take the fork to the left? She had said north. Gen thought the right fork led north. Certainly her sense of direction couldn’t be so faulty. But it was. They would have to go back.
As they retraced their path through the woods, they came to an old bridge. It certainly looked like the same bridge. And yet, Gen thought, Simon had said the Burnsides kept their bridge in constant repair. She remembered feeling uncertain the first time they had crossed it. Looking down at the icy water rushing beneath it, she felt even more uncertain. As if her nerves were transmitted through the reins, the team stopped the moment their hooves touched the first two boards. They stood shivering, their ears alert. Then, without warning, they backed up. The bridge groaned as if it, too, were a living animal. Gen thought it tilted imperceptibly.
“What’s happening?” Meg asked.
“I don’t know,” Gen said, shaking her head. “But I don’t think we dare try to cross the bridge.”
“But we have to,” Meg said. “To get back.”
“I think we’d better wait until help comes,” Gen said. She backed the team up a little farther. Reaching into the wagon box behind her, she pulled an extra blanket out and wrapped it around the three of them. “Your father will be along soon. He’ll know what to do.” She peered into the gathering darkness trying not to shiver. “Let’s sing,” she said. “Do you remember the Dakota Hymn?” she asked, Meg. When Meg shook her head uncertainly, Gen said, “Well, you’ll want to know it when we get back with our friends in the West. Let’s learn it now. Your father will be very pleased.”
“I don’t want to go back west,” Meg blurted out. “I like it here. Why can’t we stay where it’s safe and we have a good school?”
Gen put her arm around Meg. “Because this isn’t your home, Meg.”
“It feels like home,” Meg said defiantly. “I don’t hardly remember Minnesota anymore. Except St. Anthony. And Father says we aren’t going to live there. We’re going back to the Indians. To a log house.”
“Don’t you remember your log house?”
Meg shrugged. “It was all right. But I like Grandmother’s house better.”
“I cold, Mama,” Hope whined, snuggling against Gen.
Shuddering inwardly, Gen closed a gloved hand over the leather whip handle. She searched the gray horizon, watched the pink blush from sunset fade. She glanced down at the girls, barely visible except for