Page 66 of Eleanor’s Earrings

“Do not say it.”

“I was going to say they dance well.”

“No, you were not.”

“No.”

The fiddle played on. For one evening, nobody discussed mileage, damaged wheels, river levels, dwindling supplies, or how far remained to Oregon.

They sang.

They danced.

They laughed.

And when Eleanor finally walked back to the wagon beside Nathaniel, Lydia called after them, “Try not to have any private conversations where we can’t hear!”

Eleanor stopped.

Nathaniel kept walking.

“Nathaniel.”

“I am pretending I did not hear her.”

“Coward.”

“Experienced leader.”

Eleanor hurried after him, laughing.

Chapter Nine

April 9, 1854

Tributary Country

Eleanor's ribs hurt.

They had hurt since the ferry accident, but that morning the ache had sharpened until every deep breath felt like a small knife beneath her left side.

She said nothing.

Martha would tell her to rest. Caroline would agree. Rebecca would find a way to mention that Eleanor was not made of iron. Lydia would make an inappropriate joke, and Lucy would look frightened.

Nathaniel would order her into the wagon.

Eleanor now had authority over the rear division. She could not appear weak the day after receiving it.

She drove the first wagon until midmorning, then walked beside the second to check the repaired reach. When Charlotte asked whether she was well, Eleanor said she had slept poorly.

That was not a lie. It simply wasn't the whole truth.

“I can manage the bank,” Eleanor said.

“I did not say you couldn’t,” Nathaniel said.

“Your expression did.”