After a moment, I have the courage to ask what’s really on my mind. “Is it your leg? Is that why you think she won’t look twice at you?”
He doesn’t flinch from my question. “Of course it’s my leg. And those other things I mentioned, too. But mostly my leg.” He brandishes his knife at me. “Don’t get me wrong, girl. You’ll never hear me complain about the rocky path the good Lord has set before me. I’m lucky to be alive, and I thank God every day in my prayers.” He returns to whittling, but it’s more deliberate now, less hurried, like maybe he got something off his chest. “But she deserves better,” he murmurs. “She deserves the best.”
“You’re a war hero,” I protest. “A natural leader.”
“That was a terrible war. Not even a war, it was just . . . running around and shooting and being bullies. There was nothing heroic about it, and it’s not worth even a moment of your thoughts.”
The Major fought in the Black Hawk War, according to the Missouri men. It happened around the time I was born, and I don’t know anything about it but the name. The Major won’t talk about it, though, and it makes me wonder what kind of horrors he was part of. The Missouri men seem to think he’s violent. A killer. That’s why they appointed him leader of our wagon train, until he lost his leg.
But the man I know isn’t like that at all. I think of Major Craven carrying Andy around on his shoulders or helping him catch bullfrogs in the pond, the way he made that necklace and new shoes for Olive, how hard and quietly he works to provide Becky with furniture and every other comfort he can think of. Mostly, I think of the way his eyes follow Becky everywhere she goes, like she’s more precious and beautiful than all the gold in California.
“Maybe you ought to let Becky decide what she needs,” I say.
He just shrugs. “She’s still mourning her husband.”
I laugh.
“What?”
“When we were at Mormon Island, Becky saw a dress she fancied. All black. She thought it would be proper mourning dress.”
“So?”
“So, she bought a bright blue bonnet instead, and some ribbons for Olive. I guess mourning just wasn’t that important to her.”
“Huh.” He gazes off into the distance.
“And maybe you don’t want my opinion on the matter,” I continue, “but I’m going to give it anyway. You are the best, Major. I don’t see how she can do better.”
A tiny grin creeps onto his face. “You’ll keep this conversation to yourself, won’t you?” he asks in a sheepish voice.
“Course.”
He bends over and plants a kiss on the top of my head. “You’re a good friend, Lee Westfall.”
We’re up before dawn, when light barely kisses the mountain peaks and frost sparkles on fallen autumn leaves. The tree frogs chorus in the dark—I’ve never heard anything so small make such a large noise, not even crickets in the summer back in Georgia. Everyone rises to see us off, even the Buckeyes, and lanterns swing from more than a few hands. Becky’s breakfast smells warm and wonderful; she has a loaf of bread rising in her Dutch oven by the fire, and biscuits browning atop the woodstove. I look around at everyone, at the new lean-tos, the first row of logs outlining a new cabin, the canvas tents shared by the Buckeyes—all washed in the warm glow of fire and lantern light. These people are my home, I realize in my gut. And I’m sorry to leave them.
The Major lets me borrow his knapsack, since my saddle and saddlebags burned to a crisp in the fire. I stow some jerky and hardtack, my canteen, ammunition for my revolver, my blanket, and an extra shirt and stockings. I keep the gold I’ve found the past few days in my pockets. I feel safer with it on my person, and I like the way the magic of it caresses my skin, making it softly buzz.
I also pack my rifle and five-shooter. The grip on the pistol was charred in the fire, but luckily it was unloaded and came through the flames otherwise unharmed. I was worried about it, but the Major took it apart, cleaned and tested it, and assured me it was fine.
One thing I don’t bother taking is extra feed for Peony; we expect good grazing as we travel, even this late in autumn. Peony tosses her head with excitement as I lead her toward one of the Major’s log benches to mount up; I haven’t exercised her near enough lately. She’s gotten plump on meadow grass, and her winter coat is coming in thick, so she looks like ball of golden fluff.
“You okay with me riding bareback again?” I ask her. She snorts a little, which I take for assent. “That’s my girl. Maybe we’ll get you some new shoes in Sacramento.”
The Major steps forward. “If you three aren’t back in a month, we’re coming after you.”
“We’ll make it back,” Jefferson says from his seat atop Sorry. “I promise.”
“It’s tradition in my family to have a day of thanksgiving in the fall,” Becky says, frowning. “But I’m not keen to celebrate without you.”
I grin. “We’ll just have another celebration when we get back.”
“Twice the food!” Jefferson says, and I roll my eyes because Jefferson can eat more than any human I’ve ever known.
Tom has one foot in the stirrup of his gelding when Henry rushes forward. “Wait!”
Henry throws himself at Tom and buries his face in his neck. After a startled moment, Tom wraps his arms around Henry’s shoulders and squeezes tight. They whisper something back and forth, and then Henry steps back, tears brimming.
Becky gives me a quick hug. “Bring back some chickens if you can,” she orders, pressing a couple of cool, small items into my palm. I don’t have to look at them to know they’re gold nuggets. “And another butter churn.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“And! If you find one, get yourself a new dress.”
“Really?”
“A nice one,” she says with a firm nod. “Christmas is coming. A lady ought to have something proper to wear. Think of it as a bonus for all your hard work along the trail. You know . . . you and Jefferson are the best hires my husband ever made.” Her voice has a touch of sadness, but only a touch, and I cast my gaze in the Major’s direction.
Coney runs circles around the horses’ legs, certain he’s about to go off on a grand adventure. Nugget does her wobbly, limping best to join her friend, but Olive grabs her and pulls her back. “No travels for you,” she scolds, sounding like a woman grown. “Not until that leg has healed.”