Page 105 of Eleanor’s Earrings

Eleanor looked toward the circle of wagons. Her sisters were moving between families, already fulfilling their promises.

“I thought accepting help would make us less independent,” Eleanor said.

“Does it?” Nathaniel asked.

“No. It makes us busy.”

Nathaniel smiled. “Community often does.”

They walked toward the creek. The evening was cool and clear. Eleanor had become accustomed to the smell of woodsmoke in her clothes and the ache in her feet. She was less accustomed to Nathaniel's hand brushing hers as they walked.

He finally took it.

She let him.

“You spoke of Clover Creek as though you might stay in Oregon,” she said.

“I might.”

“A wagon master belongs to the trail.”

“A wagon master belongs wherever he chooses when the journey is over.”

Eleanor's pulse quickened. “And what would you choose?”

Nathaniel stopped beside the water. “I have led four trains west. Each year, I tell myself the next will be the last.”

“Why do you return?”

“Because I know how to lead people west, and I do not know what else to do.”

“You know how to build, repair, plan, farm, bargain, and order everyone around.”

“That last skill is useful.”

“Not in my house.”

His gaze held hers. “Could you imagine building a place for me in that house?”

Eleanor stopped breathing.

Nathaniel took both her hands. “Not today. Not because you need help with an ox. I am asking whether the idea is impossible.”

She thought of the large house she had imagined, her sisters filling every room, and Nathaniel beside a fire that belonged to them rather than to a temporary camp.

“No,” she whispered. “It is not impossible.”

Hope moved across his face.

Eleanor stepped closer. “But I cannot promise more.”

“Not yet.”

“You sound very certain.”

“I am a patient man.”

She thought of every argument they had shared. “No, you are not.”