Where the Lost Wander_ A Novel - Amy Harmon Page 0,2

and Warren, and for a time I am blessedly unaware, wrapped in gauzy delirium.

But I am not dead; I am walking, and Wolfe is still in my arms. A tugging, distant and weak, narrows the distance between the me who floats and the me who walks. The pull grows stronger, and I register the rope around my neck that tightens and releases as I stumble and straighten, my wooden legs marching along behind a paint pony, the spots on his rump like the blood that seeped through the cover on the Binghams’ wagon. There was so much blood. And screaming. Screaming, screaming, and then nothing.

It is silent now, and I have no idea how long I have been walking, wrapped in odd unconsciousness, seeing but not seeing, knowing but not knowing. I am suddenly sick, and the violence of my stomach’s upending catches me unaware. I fall to my knees, and the mush I ate for breakfast hours ago splashes over the clumps of grass, the longest strands tickling my cheeks as I bow above them, retching. Wolfe wails, and the rope at my throat tightens, and my vision swims. There’s a hand on my braid, and I am jerked up from my knees. The Indians are arguing among themselves, blades wielded, and Wolfe screams and screams. I turn his face into my chest to muffle his cries and tuck my spattered cheek against his, my lips at his tiny ear.

“Be still, Wolfe,” I say, and my voice is a shock to both of us.

I don’t know why I am still alive. I don’t know why Wolfe is still alive, and my skin is suddenly raw and ready, prickled with the expectation of a blade against my brow. It doesn’t come, and I lift my eyes to the Indian nearest me, and he hisses and touches the tip of his blade below my right eye. I feel a pinch, and blood wells and trickles down my cheek, heavy and slow. His companions hoot, and Wolfe’s cries are drowned by their hollering. I leap to my feet and try to run, but the rope around my neck yanks me back, and I fall into my own vomit.

The man who cut me climbs back on his horse. And we move again. Now it is only my fear that floats above me, watching, and I’m left blessedly numb. No thoughts, no pain, my brother in my arms, and my life wafting up into the sky behind me with the smoke from our wagons.

MAY 1853

1

ST. JOSEPH, MISSOURI

JOHN

She is perched on a barrel in the middle of the wide street, a yellow-frocked flower in a white bonnet, studying the crush of people moving past. Everyone is in a hurry, covered in dust and dissatisfaction, but she sits primly, her back straight and her hands still, watching it all as if she has nowhere to go. Perhaps she’s been assigned to guard the contents of the barrel; though come to think of it, the barrel was in the street yesterday and the day before, and I’m certain it’s empty.

I have a new hat on my head and a new pair of boots on my feet, and I’m carrying a stack of cloth shirts and trousers to shove in my saddlebags along with the coffee, tobacco, and beads that will come in handy on the journey to Fort Kearny. Maybe it’s the cheerful color of her dress or her womanly form; maybe it’s simply the fact that she is so still while everyone else is in motion, but I halt, intrigued, shifting my package from one arm to the other as I look at her.

After a moment, her eyes settle on me, and I don’t look away. It isn’t insolence or arrogance that makes me stare, though my father always bristles at my flat gaze. I stare because self-preservation is easiest if you know exactly who and what you are dealing with.

She appears surprised when I hold her gaze. And she smiles. I look away, disconcerted by her pretty mouth and welcoming grin. I cringe when I realize what I’ve done. I’ve let her unnerve me and cause me to shy like Kettle, my big Mammoth Jack. I immediately look back, my neck hot and my chest tight. She pushes away from the barrel and strides toward me. I watch her approach, liking the way she moves and the set of her chin, knowing it’s wasted admiration. I expect her to walk by, perhaps swishing her skirts