Near the trading post is a military encampment made up of low tents. On our second day at Fort Hall, their leader, General Loring, rides out to speak with the wagon companies. He’s younger than I would expect for a general, despite his long beard. One of his sleeves swings empty at his side; someone whispers that he lost an arm in the Mexican War. He dismounts from his giant roan gelding and walks among us, making conversation. His uniform shows the same dirt and wear as the common soldiers’.

“You ought to go to Oregon,” he tells Frank Dilley. “California is filled with bad men—runaways and thieves. The gold will be gone in a year or two, but good rich soil lasts forever. You can pass that down to your children.”

Their conversation attracts attention. The rest of the Missouri men gather around. A few Mormons bound for Salt Lake trickle over from another company. Even Reverend Lowrey and Mr. Robichaud creep closer, ears pricked.

“Any saloon is happy to take my gold,” Frank says. “But I always get the boot when I try to pay with buckets of soil.”

His men laugh, and even I can’t help cracking a grin.

The general turns toward Lowrey and Robichaud. “What about it? Some of you look like farmers. There’s wonderful farming in the Willamette Valley. It’s good country for raising families.”

A few women have gathered too—me, Mrs. Hoffman, Lucie, some Mormons. His eyes skim over us like we’re not even here, which is fine by me. I’m bound for California or bust, no matter what he says.

But Frank Dilley jerks a thumb at me. “Better aim your sermon at that one,” he says. “I reckon Georgia there wears the pants in that company.”

Jonas Waters chortles like it’s the funniest thing. “And never have I seen pants worn so finely!” he adds.

The general gives me a puzzled look. My face flushes hot, but I keep my peace.

“I can see you’re all set in your ways,” the general says. “But since you’re a mixed company, with women present, let me warn you: We had a situation here a few weeks ago, where an Indian offered a man three horses in exchange for one of his daughters. The settler joked that if the Indian gave him six, it was a deal. This joke, as it were, at his daughter’s expense, nearly led to bloodshed, when the Indian came back with the horses.”

“That must be how the half-breed got hold of her,” Frank says, loud enough for everyone to hear. Jefferson leaps forward, but I grab his arm and yank him back.

“Ignore him,” I tell him. “Dilley’s a toad.”

Jefferson’s jaw is clenched tight, and his eyes flash darkly. For the briefest moment, he looks just like his da.

“He’ll get his in time,” Jasper says.

“I think the time is right now,” Jefferson says, but the fight trickles out of him, and he backs down.

“See what I said about wearing the pants?” Frank haws.

The general goes on for a fair bit, and all the men pay close attention. Except Reverend Lowrey, who keeps glancing my way.

As evening falls, we pack up our gear to depart in the morning. Therese and I are taking clothes down from the laundry line stretched between the Joyner and Hoffman wagons.

“Look at this!” she says in disgust, waving a dark gray stocking at me. “Luther put a hole in it again. Too big to be darned. If he trimmed his toenails once in a while, I wouldn’t have to do so much knitting.”

“I don’t know how to knit,” I admit.

She gapes at me, but she schools her expression quickly. “Well, I would be happy to teach you. No, on second thought . . .” She leans forward and drops her voice. “If you learned, Mrs. Joyner would make you knit your way to California.”

I giggle, glancing Mrs. Joyner’s way to make sure she didn’t overhear. “I bet you’re right.” I grab a table napkin from the clothesline and shake it out. If I fold it now, while it’s still sun-warmed, Mrs. Joyner might not insist it be pressed. “But will you teach me to knit later?” I ask. “When we get to California?”

Therese smiles. “Of course.”

Someone clears his throat, and I turn to find Reverend Lowery bearing down on us.

“Miss McCollin,” he says, not even knowing my name. “If I could have a private word with you?”

Therese’s eyebrows rise. She turns away quickly, but not before I notice how hard she is trying not to laugh. I stare at her back, puzzled.

“Go on, Lee,” Mrs. Joyner calls from her place by the cook fire. Her tone is smug. Like she knows something I don’t.

“All right,” I say to the preacher. “But let’s be quick about it. I’ve got work to do.”

We step away from the wagons as the sun is dipping below the horizon. The damp summer breeze has a bite of sulfur, thanks to the hot springs. We’re nearly to the river before we stop. Reverend Lowrey stands quietly a moment in his best black suit, like a crow. He clutches his Bible in one hand.

“Leah,” he says, eyes lowered. “Today’s admonitions from General Loring brought to mind my own serious neglect of duty, and I wanted to apologize to you.”

“Huh?”

“Long have I indulged in grief at the loss of Mrs. Lowrey, and thus failed to see God’s plan and purpose. I deeply regret the hurt I’ve done you, in your condition.”

I recoil a step, even though I have no idea what he means. “What exactly is my condition?”

His gaze is earnest. “That of a young woman, alone in the world, with no man for protection.”

“I’ve done a fair job of protecting myself.”

He waves his hand like a teacher erasing a chalkboard. “Everyone knows how diligently you toil. You are, in fact, an exemplary worker, and when you apply those exertions to duties more befitting your gender, to housekeeping and raising children, you’ll make a fine wife.”

“I guess.”

“What I’m trying to say is, I see our Father’s hand at work. You, all alone in the world—”

“I’m not alone.” I didn’t realize it until this very moment, but it’s true. “I’ve got Jefferson, and Jasper and Tom and Henry. I’ve got Widow Joyner and her children. The Robichauds and the Hoffmans. I am”—a touch of wonder fills my voice—“blessed with friends.”

The reverend scowls—he’s not a man used to being contradicted. “God took my beloved Mary because he has a purpose in mind for you. Our Heavenly Father, and myself—all of us—want what’s best for you. God has cultivated within me a miraculous affection for your spirited ways and comely eyes. He wants you to find the right man to marry. That man is standing before you this very moment.”

My jaw drops open. This is even worse than Jefferson’s proposal, and Jefferson had the excuse of no experience. A miraculous affection?

Finally, I find words: “Oh, hell no.”

He steps closer, looms over me. “I know you . . . carry on . . . with Jefferson. Under the wagon at night.”

I hold my ground. “What?”

“But I forgive you, my Gomer. I am your Hosea, and I will redeem you. Surely you see how unsuitable Jefferson—”

“What about Jefferson?”

“I don’t wish to allude to his parentage, as that is something over which he has no control.”