Where the Lost Wander_ A Novel - Amy Harmon Page 0,31
and had no idea what to do with it.
The wind blows like nothing I’ve ever seen or heard. We circle the wagons, stake the wheels, and put the animals inside so they don’t scatter in the gale, and the circle seems to give the wagons a bit of protection, but I expect to be swept up at any moment. The boys are beneath the wagon, and Mama, Wolfie, and I are inside. I can’t hear Ma moaning in her sleep when the wind howls like this, and for that I’m grateful. She isn’t doing well. She talks in her sleep, and she’s pale and weak. I am worried she will get the dreaded cholera, but she just smiles and tells me not to worry.
“I never get sick; you know that, Naomi,” she says. And I realize I have learned all my bravado from her.
Ma moans and baby Wolfe wails, and it is hours before the winds calm and they settle, but I don’t sleep. Just before dawn, I pull on my boots and climb from the wagon. I can’t wait a moment longer to relieve myself, wind or no wind, and I don’t want to wake Ma to come with me. The stillness is eerie, the camp deep in relieved slumber, and I listen for the rattle of Pa’s snore, a sound to orient me in the dark. I don’t go as far as I’d like, but habit and the need for privacy force me farther than is probably prudent. I bunch my skirts and sling them over my shoulder, crouching so I won’t wet my shoes or my drawers, and empty my bladder into the prairie dirt.
The wind has blown away the clouds, revealing inky darkness prickled with stars, and I don’t want to return to the wagon. I’m tired, and the weariness will find my limbs and weight my lids when the day drags on, but the solitude invigorates me. I loosen my hair and comb it with my fingers before rebraiding it and washing in the water Pa brought up from the river last night. I try not to think about the wide brown expanse of the Platte. The spring rains have flooded the banks, pulling debris into the current. The water tastes terrible, but boiled and flavored with coffee, it’s bearable. Abbott says to sprinkle oats in a bucket of water and let them sink to the bottom, taking the silt with them. It works, but it wastes too. I comfort myself with the knowledge that it doesn’t seem to be the dirt that makes us sick.
I get a fire started and make some coffee, hoping it won’t encourage anyone out of sleep too soon. I’m not ready for the day or the sun or the company, and as I sit with my cup in silence, I breathe slowly, willing time to follow my rhythm. With the animals inside the circle, I have built the fire beyond the perimeter of the wagon train, far enough to avoid a disturbance and close enough to welcome my family when they rise.
A soft tread lifts my chin and scatters my morose thoughts, and John Lowry, his sleeves rolled and his clipped hair dripping, separates from the darkness that stretches toward the Platte. My fire makes him look like a mirage, and I stand, awkward, like I’ve been waiting for him. Maybe I have. Maybe I’ve summoned him with my desperate thoughts. It’s been only a week since he kissed me, since I asked him to kiss me again, to kiss me better, but it feels like it’s been a thousand years.
“Would you like coffee?” I ask and immediately wish I hadn’t given him any choice. I don’t wait for his answer but rush to refill my cup and hand it to him while I search for another.
“Sit. I’m harmless,” I insist.
He bites his lip like he wants to disagree, but he sinks to his haunches obediently, cradling the tin cup between his big palms. I want to set the cup aside and crawl into his arms. Abigail’s death and Wolfe’s birth have turned me into a hollow-eyed ghoul; I’ve been putting one foot in front of the other, all my strength dedicated to keeping my family from falling into the hole of despair sucking at our plodding feet. I’ve had no time for thoughts of John, but my heart has kept the fire burning, and I want to beg him not to leave the train.