Jasper was taken.
At trading post, another trail outfit camped nearby.
Their foreman offered Levi and Mason two dollars more per month to switch.
Henrietta overheard.
Two dollars mattered.
Trail wages were not generous.
Levi asked:
“Food?”
The foreman laughed.
“Salt beef, beans, coffee.”
Levi looked toward Henrietta’s wagon where she was making peach cobbler from dried fruit.
“No.”
Mason also refused.
The foreman stared.
“You boys turning down money?”
Mason pointed toward wagon.
“Have you eaten Lawson’s camp?”
That story spread before they reached Kansas.
Two men had turned down better wages rather than leave Henrietta’s fire.
She pretended it meant nothing.
That night she made extra cobbler.
Caleb noticed.
“Sentimental.”
“Dried peaches would spoil.”
“They are dried.”
“Go away.”
He laughed.
The trail north became less hostile after Jasper.
Not easier.
Dust remained dust.
Rivers remained dangerous.
Cattle did not care about personal growth.
But the crew changed.
The goats became camp favorites before becoming food.
Henrietta named none.
Levi named all.
This caused emotional difficulty every time one was butchered.
Henrietta warned:
“Do not name supper.”
He ignored.
One goat became General.
When time came, Levi said absolutely not.
Henrietta looked at him.
“You named him.”
“Yes.”
“You did this to yourself.”
They spared General because he had become good pack companion.
Henrietta denied sentimentality.
Nobody believed.
At the Arkansas River crossing, wagon wheel cracked.
Caleb wanted leave two cast-iron pots behind.
Henrietta stared as if he proposed abandoning child.
“No.”
“Hedi, wagon weight.”
“No.”
“We need lighten.”
“Leave your saddle.”
“My saddle?”
“You heard.”
“Pot weighs forty pounds.”
“So does your pride.”
They compromised by redistributing flour and spare tack.
The pots survived.
Caleb complained for three days.
Then ate cornbread baked in one.
He stopped.
Romance grew in pieces.
No declarations.
One morning Caleb repaired wagon step wider without saying.
Henrietta noticed.
It was stronger, reinforced beneath.
She stood staring.
Caleb approached.
“Problem?”
“No.”
“Then?”
She touched board.
“You did this.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“The old one flexed.”
Her face tightened automatically.
He saw.
“Hedi.”
“What?”
“I am not saying your body is problem.”
She looked at him.
“The step was.”
He tapped support.
“So I fixed step.”
Henrietta’s throat tightened unexpectedly.
Caleb seemed alarmed.
“Did I do wrong?”
“No.”
She looked away.
“No.”
The simplicity broke something old inside her.
For most of her life, when an object failed beneath her, people behaved as though she had committed offense.
Chair.
Bench.
Wagon seat.