Pa grumbles, fussing with his beard, hands shaking a little. “You shouldn’t tell people about your mom, about where you’re from. You don’t know who to trust.”
I don’t tell him the other thing that Imogene said, the warning that I shouldgo back to the valley.Or he might take her advice and drive me straight back there, leaving me with the Horaces or in the burnt-out shell of the cabin. His willingness to let me come with him is a fragile thing. So I keep my mouth shut, turning my gaze to the wheat fields, where a dozen townspeople are still tending to the crops. It seems they will work until it’s good and dark.
I peer over my shoulder, at the buildings fading in the distance, and for a moment I think I see three shadows at the edge of town, seated on horseback. Maybe it’s the three men I noticed at the blacksmith’s shop. But when I look again, they’re gone.
“Her eyes were clouded,” I say. “Imogene’s.”
“She’s been sick for a long time.” Pa reaches his arm out and plucks a stalk of wheat as we pass, sticking one end in his mouth, chewing lazily. “But she’s strong. She’ll likely outlive us all.”
“Many of the others were sick too.”
Pa nods but won’t look at me. “Consumption has gotten worse.”
Odie snorts, reaching again for a clump of wheat, but Pa urges her straight on. “Doc Holliday died of consumption, you know.” His dark, dust-brown eyes squint out at the road, against the setting sun. “They used to call it tuberculosis, or the plague.”
“Who’s Doc Holliday?”
The side of his mouth lifts, like he’s telling one of his stories—a half-true kind of story that grows longer and more absurd over time. “He was a famous gunslinger. He was at the shoot-out at the O.K. Corral.”
I shake my head, having no idea what he’s talking about.
“Your mom never told you any of the good stories, did she?” he asks.
I raise an eyebrow at him.
“Doc Holliday was a dentist, which is why everyone called him ‘Doc.’ But he was best known for his fast draw. And he hung around Wyatt Earp in Tombstone, which gave them both quite a reputation.”
“How far away is Tombstone?” I ask, liking this story.
Pa laughs this time, a quick, bright sound that rattles his chest. “Too far,” he says with a wink, like he’s still telling stories, memories from his past.
A storm is swirling against low green hills in the distance, but it’s far away, and might not reach us. “How do you know this story?” I ask.
He turns, beard twisting in the wind. “Your mother told me.”
A small spark of pain lights behind my eyes, and I wonder if it will always feel this way when I hear her name. It’s also hard to imagine Mom telling old stories to Pa, that she never told to me.
The town disappears behind us, and we cross over flat, dry plains where the sky seems bigger than the whole of the land beneath us, bigger than it ever was back in the valley: wide and stormy blue and beautiful. I think of the other thing that Imogene said to me when I asked about the Architect:You won’t find him here.Which means he’s somewhere out there, in a world so big, I wonder if I’ll ever find him. Or if I’ll run out of time before I do.
“The jar you got from Imogene—” I turn my eyes to Pa. “Is it honey?”
He nods.
Mr. and Mrs. Horace used to have bee boxes, but one summer the bees vanished and never returned. The Horaces never had honey to trade after that.
“Can we have some for dinner?” I ask, remembering the sweet taste on my tongue.
But he shakes his head. “No, we’re saving it.”
“For what?”
“You’ll see.”
I rest my head back against the side of the wagon, listening to the jars of tonic rattle in the back. Most of the jars are empty now, only half a dozen still glistening with golden liquid—sweet and marbled and reflecting the evening sun as if the wagon was filled with an amber sunlight.
“How many jars of tonic do you give away?” I ask.
“Too many.”
