“I can’t stop thinking about the preacher’s wife.”

“Mrs. Lowrey?”

“Mary. Her name was Mary. A sweet girl. Not much older than you.”

“I didn’t know her very well,” I admit.

“I only spoke to her a few times.” She squeezes my hand. “You were wise to refuse the preacher’s offer. Put off marriage as long as you can.”

I almost ask why, but I’m not sure I want to hear more. Instead, I squeeze her hand in return.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” she says. “Every time I . . .” She puts a knuckle to her mouth and bites down. It’s not a contraction that’s taken her, but something even deeper and more painful. She tries again: “My own ma died giving birth. So did my grandma. And last year, my older sister . . . Every time I lay with my husband, I thought, ‘Becky, you will be dead in nine months.’ I know it’s God’s will that women suffer, that we are saved through faith and childbearing, but sometimes . . .”

“Things will be fine.” I squeeze her hand again, because one of us is shaking and I’m not sure which.

“You don’t know that,” she says. “That’s the problem with pregnancy—you never know. My husband was a gambler. The fool man never considered that the thing he gambled with most was me.”

All through the night, the contractions come slowly. Too slowly. I count the time between them, and they gradually grow closer together. She makes me check her frequently, which I do by candlelight. I can’t see any way a baby will come out.

Between contractions, she dozes. Once, I try to doze too, but as soon as I nod off, a hand reaches under the canvas to tug at my sleeve, and I nearly jump through the roof.

“Is there a baby yet?” Jefferson whispers to me.

“No,” I whisper back.

“Hampton is back!”

“Oh?” I brace myself for what he’ll say next.

“Just walked right into our camp carrying a barrelful of water, like a peace offering. Found the empty barrel back at the sink and filled it up.”

“Good,” I say. Then: “No one is going to . . . I dunno, do something awful to him? Are they?”

“You mean the Major? Not a chance—not with the Missouri men gone. That extra barrelful might really help.”

I loose a breath of relief. Hampton would have had a very different reception a few weeks ago, even from the families. But everything changes on the road to California.

Jefferson is silent, and I think he’s gone away. I drift off again.

“You know, the Major isn’t such a bad fellow,” he says, startling me.

“Oh?” I blink to wake my eyes. “Even after the way he talked about Indians?”

“He told me he had to do something, or the Missouri men would have done worse. That stupid drill was just to keep them happy.”

“Huh. You believe him?”

Another contraction snaps Becky Joyner awake, and she gasps in pain. Jefferson yanks the canvas flap shut and disappears.

The sun rises and burns its way across the sky, and still there is no baby. I continue to sit with Becky, telling her stories about growing up in Dahlonega, giving her sips of warm, brackish water, squeezing her hand through contractions.

“It was this way with both the other children,” she says after a bad one. Her skin is pallid and clammy. Salt streaks her face, and her hair is plastered to the side of her face. “With Olive, I was abed for thirty-six hours. Andrew was almost twenty-four.”

“That sounds awful,” I say.

She can’t answer because another contraction takes her. I murmur meaningless but soothing words. This one lasts forever. I’m just starting to wonder if I ought to go get Jasper when her face relaxes.

“That was more than a minute,” I tell her with forced cheer. “They’re getting longer.”

She nods and gives me a brave, brief smile. Then she screams.

The waves come, over and over, relentless and fierce. She was right all along; she’s going to die. I check between her legs one last time. If there’s no progress, I’m fetching Jasper, no matter what she says.

I see the tiny crown of a baby’s head.

“Oh!” I say.

Her eyes fill with panic. Fingernails claw into the back of my hand.

“Your baby has curly black hair!” I tell her.

Joy like I’ve never seen lights her sweaty face, makes her almost beautiful.

“The next time you feel a contraction, you should push, right?”

There is no answer, only agony. A vein on her forehead pops out. Her low, guttural groan crescendos into an agonizing scream. I glimpse the baby’s shoulders for a split second before its tiny body slips out, almost leaping into my outstretched hands.

“A girl,” I whisper, staring. She’s so little.

The slimy little bundle coughs, gasps, and then cries out, tiny but vigorous.

“Sweetheart,” Mrs. Joyner sobs, reaching out her arms. I place the baby where she belongs, and all the worry and pain drop away from the woman’s face like they never happened. The umbilical cord drapes across Becky’s torso and ends on the mattress in a mess of afterbirth. News first, clean up later.

I open the canvas flap and see eight weary bodies clustered in the shade of the tent, which has been stretched out flat like an awning. Their faces stare up at me in anticipation.

“A girl,” I say. “She’s fine. Her ma’s fine too.” I blink against the brightness. When did everything get so blurry? Maybe it’s because I haven’t slept in more than a day.

Jefferson claps his hands. “Great. Can we start moving now?”

But I’m looking over his head at something I’m not sure is there. A silhouette in the distance. Skirts flapping in the wind. A woman staggering out of the shimmering mirage that is the horizon.

It’s Therese. After five months on the road together, I would recognize her from any distance. She stumbles, gets up again.

I leap from the wagon and start running.

Everyone’s else pounding feet are right behind me. I skid to my knees when I reach her. She vomits—a thin, yellow gruel followed immediately by dry heaving. One foot is bare and riddled with open sores. Her sun-scalded skin is hot and dry. I try to help her up, and I feel her heartbeat under my palms; it’s as rapid and tiny as hummingbird wings.

“Therese?” Jefferson says. “Therese! What’s wrong with her! Jasper—”

“Heat stroke,” Jasper says. “Quick, get her into the shade and give her some water.”

Jefferson lifts her by the armpits. I grab a leg; Hampton the other. She swings between us as we half walk, half run back to the shade of camp.

“‘Märchen von einem, der auszog das Fürchten zu lernen,’ ” she babbles.

“I don’t understand, Therese,” Jefferson says. “Tell me what happened.”

“It’s a fairy tale, silly,” she says. Her eyes meet mine, and her face gets a sudden clarity. She reaches out, as if to grab my arm but misses. “You have to help them.”

“Of course we will,” I say. We’re almost to the tent.

“The axle broke,” she says. “Everyone left us behind. Vati tried to lead on foot, but Doreen was too heavy. He fell. Please . . . help . . .”