The Book of Lost Friends - Lisa Wingate Page 0,137

milk as they turn, turn, turn.

I tip my head against the misery and think of Mr. William Gossett and try to work out if he could’ve come so far out into this bare land, and found hisself riding a stole horse, and then sitting trapped in a jail while men broke down the door and rushed in with hanging ropes and guns.

I can’t even fancy him in such a place. What could bring him here into the wild?

But deep down, I know. I answer my own question. Love. That’s the thing that would do it. The love of a father who can’t give up on his only son. Who’d wander the entire wide world if need be to bring his boy home. Lyle didn’t deserve that kind of love. He didn’t return it, except with bad deeds and fast living and trouble. Likely, Lyle’s already met his rightful end. Dead, shot, or hanged in some unplatted place like this one, his bones picked clean by wolves and left to fall to dust. Likely, Old Mister come down here chasing after a ghost. But he couldn’t make hisself give up hope till he knew for sure.

The rain stops on the second day, quick as it hit. That’s the way of it in this country.

The men shake out their hats and toss off their oilcloth slickers. Juneau Jane climbs out from under the wagon canvas, where she’s hid during the storms, mostly. She’s the only one here small enough to do that. Missy’s wet clear through, because she won’t keep a slicker on. She don’t shiver or fuss or even seem to notice. Just sits on the tail of the wagon, staring off, like she is right now.

“Quanto de temps…tiempo nos el voy…viaje?” Juneau Jane asks one of the scouts, a half-Indian Tonkawa who don’t speak English but Spanish. With knowing French, Juneau Jane’s picked up their language some on this freight trip. I have, too, a little.

The scout holds up three fingers. I figure that means three hours more for us to travel. Then he raises a hand flat and passes it up and down over his mouth, the Indian sign that we got one more time to cross water.

The sun fights its way through the clouds and the day turns bright, but inside of me comes a darkening. The more we draw nigh on Menardville, the more it weighs heavy on me that we’ll soon be after Old Mister again, and what if we find news of him but the news is hard for Juneau Jane? What if he’s met a terrible end in this strange place?

What comes of us then?

Of a sudden, there’s a patch of blue in the far-off sky, and I think of something. I think it right out loud. “I can’t go back.”

Juneau Jane tips her head my way, then climbs up from the wagon bed, settles in beside me, them cool silver coin eyes watching from under that floppy hat.

“I can’t go back home, Juneau Jane. If we find news of your papa there in Mason, or if we find him even. I can’t go back home with you and Missy. Not yet.”

“But you must.” She strips off her wet hat, lays it on her knee and scratches out her fuzzy hair. The men are far enough away right now, she can do that. Without the hat, a person might not take her for a boy, just lately. She’s growed up some on this trip. “For the land. Your farm. It is the matter of greatest importance for you, no?”

“No. It ain’t.” A sureness settles itself in my soul. I don’t know where it’ll lead after this, but I know what’s true. “Something was begun in me, way back when we stood in that little wildwood church and we looked at them newspaper pages. When we promised things to the roustabouts on the Katie P. and when we started The Book of Lost Friends. I’ve got to go on with it, to keep the promises we made.”

I’m not sure how I’ll do it without Juneau Jane. She’s the writer. But I’m learning, and bound to get better. Good enough to scratch down