“Next time a fool gets hisself killed, let him stay where he lies. Not worth punishing the rest of us for it.” Otis raised his voice.
“Quiet,” Mr. Hayes roared. “You’d do well to remember who’s in charge here. Everybody back to your wagons and behave yourselves. We move out at first light. If anyone else feels reason to complain, be grateful it’s not you lying in the ground.”
The families dispersed, still murmuring among themselves. The sisters headed back to their camp, Robbie in tow.
Martin’s wife, Thelma, crossed over from their wagon carrying a covered dish and a spider skillet. Her little girl tagged at her heels. “I thought you folks could use a hot meal.” She lifted the towel on the dish. “I brought you some fried squirrel and fresh corn bread.”
“How kind you are.” Forsythia reached for the food. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Well, you folks have been taking care of that poor family like they were kin.” Thelma rested her hand on her child’s head. “’Bout time someone took care of you.”
The kindness in her voice brought a lump to Lark’s throat. “Thank you, ma’am. We surely appreciate it.”
The scent of crisply fried meat and fluffy corn bread brought on a hunger she didn’t know she had. Together they sat, gave thanks, and ate in grateful silence. Even Robbie perked up enough to eat a big piece of corn bread and half of Lilac’s squirrel before falling soundly asleep in Forsythia’s arms. Exhausted, poor little man.
Lark set aside her plate and leaned her head against the wagon, suddenly too tired to hold it up. Lord . . . She was asleep before she finished the prayer.
“Lark?” Lilac’s hand on Lark’s shoulder startled her awake a while later.
She raised her head, blinking.
“Sorry.” Her little sister sat down beside her. “I was thinking maybe some music would lift everyone’s spirits. All right if Del and I invite folks to our fire tonight? I’ll ask Mr. Hayes.”
“Sure.” Lark rubbed her stiff neck. Leave it to Lilac.
The sisters had started preparing supper when Mr. Hayes walked up. “Do you folks have a few minutes we can talk?”
“Of course, but can we talk and fix supper at the same time?” Del’s smile could welcome any stranger, let alone a person she had already met.
Lark turned from splitting wood from a dead tree they had downed and cut with the crosscut saw. Anders had insisted they needed one and hung it over hooks on the outside of the wagon. That saw had become mighty popular. “How can we help you?”
“It’s about the Durham wagon.” Hayes tipped back his flat-brimmed hat. “I know you were traveling together, but with both the mister and missus gone . . .”
Forsythia spoke up. “Before she died, Alice asked if we would care for Robbie. I guess she knew her husband’s weakness. I told her we would.”
Hayes nodded. “I see. So, then, you should have the wagon and supplies to help care for the boy.” He looked to Lark, who nodded.
“I—we figured that when we get to where we’re going, we’ll try to contact members of their families.”
“I planned to search through a box Alice mentioned in the hope there are some names and addresses there,” Forsythia added. “I know their family Bible is in that box. She asked me to read from it often. That’s a place to start.”
Hayes slapped his knees and nodded as he stood. “Good, glad to hear that. You might get some questions or complaints from others, but as far as I’m concerned, the matter is closed.”
“Thank you.”
After supper, a small group gathered around their campfire. With the familiar feel of the mouth organ in her hands, Lark harmonized to her sisters’ playing. They started with Robbie’s favorite, “Oh! Susanna.”
Voices joined in from the circle, some tapping their feet. Lilac smiled across her fiddle, and Lark nodded at her sister. They played a few more folk tunes, and then Forsythia picked a quieter melody and started to sing.
“Come, thou Fount of every blessing,
Tune my heart to sing thy grace;
Streams of mercy, never ceasing,
Call for songs of loudest praise.”
More voices joined from surrounding wagons. Folks came to stand close, mothers holding small sleepy children, fathers’ impatient faces softened by the music.
Lark closed her eyes, something unwinding in her middle as she played.
“Here I raise my Ebenezer;
Hither by thy help I’ve come;
And I hope, by thy good pleasure,
Safely to arrive at home.”
Hither by thy help we’ve come indeed, dear Lord. Guide us through the rest of the way. And please, let today’s grave be the last for a good long while.
16
It sure was pleasant sitting around a fire, surrounded by friendly faces.
Adam Brownsville took the cup of coffee Forsythia held out to him with a nod of thanks. Miss Nielsen, he should say, even in his head. Yet she had quickly become Forsythia to him. How had that happened? He stroked his beard, once a dark rich brown like his hair but now shot with silver, a habit he had when pondering. His right leg, wounded in the war, ached something fierce at times, and he hated to spend his meager collection of medications on himself. Perhaps the Nielsens had an herbal remedy in their stores.
Clark, the older brother, had invited him and Jesse to join them for supper tonight after a long day on the road. Mr. Hayes had pushed the train harder to try to make up for the lost time, and a weary haze hung over the darkened campground.
Here, though, in the Nielsen circle, he felt the first lifting of his spirits since he’d laid his Elizabeth in the ground. Could that only have been a few weeks past? It felt like a lifetime ago. Yet sometimes he still woke in the darkness, reaching for her beside him, and the pall of grief took his breath once more.
“How did you learn to carve like that, Jesse?” Lilac, the youngest Nielsen sister, drew little Robbie onto her lap. Together they examined his nephew’s latest creation—a rooster
