She was quiet for a moment. “I’m not sure I ever did. Sometimes when I see a woman who is loving and open with her children, I still feel some doubt. Even with Amanda, and she is the gentlest, kindest soul I know. Even there I wondered now and then what stories Peter might tell if I asked him the right way.”

“So. Are you saying you don’t want to have children at all?”

She turned to rub her cheek on his shoulder. “That’s the problem, Daniel. I do want to have them. Whenever we’re together some part of me hopes I’ll catch, but then afterward—the thought frightens me.”

After a long moment Daniel said, “Did you ever wonder what kind of mother Jemima would have been if Liam Kirby had loved her and married her? If he had been there to help raise you?”

She lifted her face to look at him. “I have to say that never occurred to me. I wonder why not, why I can’t imagine her happy, and that’s—I don’t know what it is. Sad, or tragic. She sometimes told me that if I hadn’t been born, things would have gone differently for her.”

“And I thought I couldn’t get any madder at her than I am already. She blamed you for her mistakes.” His voice had taken on an edge, but he couldn’t stop himself. “She’s a sorry excuse for a human being. You know that you weren’t responsible for her unhappiness, I hope.”

“In theory, yes.” She said it very quietly.

“I can tell you one thing for sure,” Daniel said. “There’s no simple explanation for why a person turns out the way they do. Good parents or bad, rich or poor. Your grandmother Southern was a good woman, but Jemima still turned out the way she did. And then there’s Becca; you said yourself that she’s a good mother, but her own mother was a drunk, and mean too. Maybe you haven’t heard those stories, but it’s true.”

“I’ve heard them. Curiosity told me some of that, and she said something I forgot about until just now. She said, the reason Becca works so hard and never allows herself a moment’s peace is because she’s running away from the idea of her mother. Trying to prove to herself that she’s not the same person.”

“Yes, that makes sense,” Daniel said. “I wonder she hasn’t dropped dead of exhaustion long ago.”

Martha laughed, a short tight sound.

He said, “All I know to do is to be here, Martha. You don’t have anything to prove to me. You may doubt that it’s in you to be a good mother, but I don’t, not for a second. Maybe if we hadn’t been rushed into marrying I could have had time to make you understand how I see you, and how fine you are to me. I should tell you more often, but words don’t always come easy.”

He felt her relaxing against him and it made him want to hold her tighter, to turn her to him and show her what he meant to say.

She said, “Listen.”

In the clear night air there was no mistaking the sound of horse and cart coming up the trail. Hopper roused himself and growled, the fur standing up on the back of his neck until Daniel spoke a word.

Martha was up and moving slowly toward the sound. It drew her forward as steadily and unrelenting as a rope. He could call her back, but he doubted she’d even hear him. Following her at the right distance, that was the trick, but then she stood there in the dark, all the color leached away so that it seemed to him, for that moment, that he could see through her, see her bones and the flow of blood and the shapes of her muscles.

He took her hand. Her pulse was hammering high and fast, while his own heart seemed to be settling into a preternaturally slow rhythm. Daniel was aware of the knife at his hip, of the sweat trickling down his back, of the nightbirds in the woods and the stars overhead.

He wanted to take her back into the house, but she wouldn’t thank him for his interference. She had decided upon a course of action, and he would not try to stop her.

Martha drew in a short sharp breath when Nathaniel came out of the woods. He was carrying a lantern that swung in rhythm with his step, with Florida following.

It was true, then. It was happening. They would take Jemima to Lake in the Clouds, where Susanna would nurse her until she died.

The cart Florida pulled was just big enough for a couple lambs or barrels, but it would handle the mountain trail all the way up. They had lined it with something, quilts or blankets, and turned it into a makeshift chair. A throne, of sorts, where Martha’s mother sat wrapped in blankets despite the heat. The swinging lantern revealed a shoulder, a cheek, the jawline in turn.

Ethan followed with another lantern, and behind Ethan came Callie.

Martha’s breath caught in her throat.

Beside her Daniel said, “Callie’ll do what she must, and so will you.”

“I can’t leave her to handle it on her own,” Martha said.

“You can,” Daniel said.

Nathaniel and Ethan raised hands in greeting but their pace didn’t slacken. Callie’s gaze was fixed on the cart. Martha had the idea that Callie wasn’t even aware of where she was.

“I’ll regret it for the rest of my life if I leave her to do this alone.”

Daniel started to say something and then fell silent, because the figure in the cart shifted and a harsh voice was rising in question. It was Nathaniel who turned to answer, and in response Jemima’s voice rose another octave. Callie’s voice and then Jemima’s, both sharp as sticks.

“Martha!” Jemima yelled. “I can see you there. Martha! Will you send me off to die among strangers?” She was struggling to free herself of the covers, shouting at Nathaniel to stop, to stop right here, to stop right here or by God she would put out his eyes.