Where the Lost Wander_ A Novel - Amy Harmon Page 0,85
from the shelves and the old trader, looking out into the yard, where Wyatt is watering the animals. A few folks mill about—Indians, Mexicans, and whites alike—but the fort is quiet in the wake of the last train, and I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’ve got money, but not money to throw away. The prices of the goods on the shelves are ten times what they sell for in St. Joseph. The sad part is desperate folks will pay. I’ve got mules, but I think I’d rather starve than trade one for trail rations. But it’s not going to be just me.
The man behind the bar walks out to stand beside me, wholly unconcerned with the lack on his shelves and my obvious displeasure. “Hey . . . you wantin’ to sell that jack? That is some kind of animal. I got a few mares I wouldn’t mind gettin’ a couple good mules out of. Those big mules bring big money round here. Fur traders and mountain men like the mules.”
“I won’t sell him . . . but if you’ll give me what I need for a fair price—and when I say fair, I mean about a quarter of what you’re selling it for now—I’ll take a look at your mares. If one of them is agreeable to it, I’ll give you stud services for free.”
The man tugs on his beard, his eyes narrowed. Then he shrugs.
“I don’t know that I’ll see another jack like that come through here. I’ll set whatever you want aside. How’s that? Your jack does his thing, we’ll come to an agreement on price. That way it won’t get sold, and it’ll still be there if’n the animals don’t cooperate. I got a chest I can give ya. We can load it up. Got a fellow who follows the trains and just picks up what they toss out. Like pickin’ fruit off a tree. I got a room full of his finds.”
I tell him what I want—the utensils and dishes, the skillet, hardtack, flour, and everything else I think I can afford if all goes well. I try not to think about the fact that I still don’t have a wagon to put it in, and there’s no obvious way to get one. The man keeps a running tally on a strip of paper, and my tension grows as I calculate the number. I help drag the chest from the other room, and we load everything into it, pushing it behind the counter and bolting it closed when we’re finished.
“Teddy Bowles,” the man says, extending his hand.
“John Lowry.”
“John, there’s something happening out front,” Wyatt says, sticking his head through the doorway, his eyes shifting from me to Teddy Bowles. “Indians on one side and white folks on the other, and it don’t look good.”
“Damnation!” Teddy wails, running for the door. “I better get Vasquez.”
NAOMI
The number of times we cross Blacks Fork reminds me of the winding Sweetwater River and John’s rejection. I was sure I was going to spend the rest of my days pining after a man who wouldn’t settle. He tied me in knots and walked away, all because he thinks too hard. I’ve never known a man who thinks so hard. I just hope he finds what he’s certain we need, because if he doesn’t, there won’t be a wedding. When I told him we could just share Warren’s wagon with Adam and Lydia, he looked at me like I had three eyes and a pair of horns.
When Daniel and I married, we had two bowls, two spoons, one trencher, a plate, and a new skillet with which to set up house. Ma and I made a quilt, and Daniel built me a chest as a wedding gift, but we spent our first night beneath his father’s roof, as well as our second night and our third and our forty-fifth. A month before Daniel died, we’d moved into a one-room cabin a few miles from his folks. It had a fireplace and a window, and it was just big enough to accommodate a bed, a cupboard, Daniel’s chest, a small table, and one chair. At supper, I would sit on the bed and give Daniel the seat at the table. When Daniel died, I couldn’t sit in that chair. It felt wrong. And I couldn’t sleep in the bed. In fact, I never slept in it again. I was afraid of being swallowed in sadness and loss. I slept