Page 8 of Caroline’s Compass

Thomas waited.

Caroline mounted without accepting his hand. The horse took three steps sideways, apparently offended by unnecessary independence. Thomas caught the bridle before she could correct it.

“Do not say anything,” she warned.

“I admire your command of the situation.”

“That was something.”

They rode south. The faint trace crossed higher ground for nearly half a mile. Grass grew thick between the ruts, but the soil beneath held firm. Thomas stopped near a lone cottonwood and took out his surveying compass.

Caroline removed Father's pocket compass. “They do not look alike.”

“Mine is designed to take more exact bearings. Yours is easier to carry and less likely to make every child in camp ask whether you are hunting treasure.”

“Do they?”

“Samuel Turner believes my tripod conceals a cannon.”

“Have you corrected him?”

“Not yet.”

She smiled despite herself.

Thomas stepped beside her. “Hold it flat.”

“It is flat.”

“It is tilted toward you.”

“Only slightly.”

“North does not become more accurate because the error is slight.”

Caroline adjusted her hand. Thomas reached beneath her fingers and lifted the case until the needle moved freely. The warmth of his hand passed through her glove.

She noticed the quiet around them. The halted wagons were hidden beyond the low rise. There was only grass, wind, two horses, and a man standing close enough that she could see the faint line beside his mouth where he resisted smiling.

“Now wait,” he said.

The needle swung.

“I am waiting.”

“You are attempting to force it by staring.”

“I do not believe that is possible.”

“Your family has unusual abilities.”

The needle settled. Thomas showed her how to align the mark on the case with the cottonwood and read the direction. Her first answer was several degrees wrong because she had moved her wrist.

The second was exact.

“Good,” he said.

The single word warmed her more than it should have. Caroline closed the compass. “We still need to examine the northern trace.”