The wagon's axle had cracked on the second day. She tried to fix it with rope and prayers, but it dragged now, lopsided and screeching, chewing through what little strength she had left. Her feet were bleeding. The rags she'd wrapped them in were soaked through, brown and stiff. Every step was a negotiation with agony.
Every breath was a fight against the urge to just lie down in the road and let the buzzards have her. But she wouldn't because if I stop, they'll take them. Daniel's brother, Thomas Avery, had made that very clear at the funeral. Mara, you can't possibly think you can raise seven children alone. Be reasonable.
Let me take the boys. I'll find families for the girls. Good Christian families. Translation: He'd sell them, indenture them, scatter them like seeds to the wind, and she'd never see them again. No.
Mari, I said, "No." He'd smiled then, cold and thin. "We'll see." So she ran, took the children, and ran before he could file papers, before he could convince a judge she was unfit, before the law could rip her family apart with the stroke of a pen. And now here she was, broken, bleeding, dragging a wagon through hell because stopping meant surrender. "Mama," Jonah said quietly beside her, his voice cracked. "Mama, please.
You need to rest." "We're almost there," she lied. We're not. You know we're not. She didn't answer. Just leaned harder into the rope harness she tied around her shoulders, the fibers cutting into her collarbone like knives.
The sun hammered down. The road stretched endlessly ahead. A pale scar through the sage brush. Somewhere in the distance, a hawk circled. Mar's vision was starting to blur at the edges.
Her legs felt like they belonged to someone else. She could taste blood in her mouth. She'd bitten her tongue at some point and hadn't noticed. "Mama," Eliza called from the wagon, her voice high and frightened. "Mama, the baby won't wake up." Mara's heart lurched.
She stopped, turned, stumbled to the wagon side. Samuel lay in Eliza's arms, limp and pale. His eyes were closed. His chest barely moved. "No, no, no, no." Mara grabbed him, pressed her ear to his tiny chest.
There, faint. But there, a heartbeat. Water, she gasped. Eliza, the canteen. It's empty, mama.
It's been empty since this morning. Of course it was. Mara cradled Samuel against her chest, rocking him, whispering desperately. Stay with me, baby. Stay with me.
We're almost there. We're almost. She was lying to a dying infant. The realization hit her like a fist to the stomach. I'm going to lose him.
I'm going to lose all of them. Mama, what do we do? Clara's voice, small and terrified. Mara opened her mouth to answer, though she had no answer. And that's when Jonah's hand gripped her arm.