gives a man lots of time to think.”
“What do you think about?” I ask, trying to swallow my disappointment and cool the warmth still coursing through my limbs.
“I think about my place in the world. I think about what will happen when we reach California. What’ll happen when you decide you can do a whole lot better than John Lowry.” He doesn’t sound wistful. He sounds convinced.
“There is no one better than John Lowry.”
“And how would you know that?”
“How do you know I’m wrong?” I shoot back.
“Because you don’t think, Naomi. You just . . . do.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is. You just throw yourself into the wind . . . into the river—do you remember crossing the Platte? Or demanding a horse from Black Paint? You throw yourself forward and don’t consider for a moment that there might be a better way.”
“Sometimes when we think too long and too hard, we let fear get a foothold. But I think about you plenty, John Lowry.”
“No. You aren’t thinking. You’re feeling. And I’m glad of it.” He clears his throat, pausing. “But I’m afraid of it too.”
“Why?” I’m trying not to lose my temper.
“Because eventually, time thinks for us. It cuts through the fog of emotion and delivers a big bowl of reality, and feelings don’t stand a chance,” John says with bleak finality.
“Then why are you here? Why didn’t you turn around at Fort Kearny, if you’re so sure about who I am? I thought we had an understanding.”
“I’m here because I have thought it through. I’ve thought you through.”
“You’ve thought me through?” I repeat. “What does that mean?”
“It means you’re the woman I want. I won’t change my mind on it. I won’t ever want something different.” He pauses and enunciates the next words. “Someone different. I’ll always want you.”
I stare at him, stunned and stirred, right down to the soles of my aching feet.
“But I’m not going to kiss you again . . . not anytime soon. And I’m not going to pretend you’re mine. I’m not going to hold your hand or tell you that I love you. And I’m not going to let that preacher say the words over us.”
The joy that coursed through me only minutes before disintegrates like it never was, so completely gone I can’t even recall what it felt like.
“You don’t know me at all,” I whisper.
His eyes search mine, but I cannot tell what he is thinking. “I know you. And I’m sure. But I want you to be sure.”
“I’ve told you how I feel.” I swallow back my anger and my disappointment, refusing to cry out my frustration.
He nods. “I know. And I don’t question how you feel.”
“You just question what I think,” I say flatly. “Or whether I think. Or if I’m even capable of deep thought.”
“Naomi,” he says, the word filled with protestation. “I will not ever be an obligation again. My mother did not have a choice of whether she wanted me. Most women don’t. My father . . . did his duty. Jennie too. I know that is what life is about. Duty. Responsibility. There is great value in that. But I want you to see all your choices . . . and still want me.”
“So all the way to California, huh? No kisses. No promises. No love. Just waiting. Waiting until you decide that I’ve thought us through long and hard. How long do you think that will be, John?” My words wobble with anger, and my heart is so hot with outrage I want to clap my hands over it so it doesn’t disintegrate and leave a gaping hole in my chest.
“As long as you need.”
“You’re a fool, John Lowry. I keep throwing myself at you. I keep telling you exactly what I think. I’ve never tried to keep it from you. I don’t have much. My dresses are worn out. My shoes too. I don’t have a husband or a home or even my own pots and pans. I don’t have much,” I say again, “but I have my pride. And I am not going to beg.”
JOHN
I have hurt her. I have known Naomi May—I still can’t call her Naomi Caldwell and probably never will—for two months. Two of the hardest months of my life. Two of the worst. Two of the best. I’ve almost died, and I’ve never been more alive. I’ve told her things no one else knows. I’ve laughed. No one and nothing makes me laugh. But Naomi makes me laugh.
And