Dedication

To all the courageous and steadfast pioneers who ventured into the unknown to forge a path and homes in a new land. And to my children, Paul and Nora. May you hold fast to the perseverance and faith of Matilda as you face obstacles in your life.

Prologue

1894, Chehalis, Washington

The reporter adjusted his suit jacket as he settled into a stuffed chair across from the diminutive and elderly pioneer. Mrs. Jackson, may I ask how long you have lived here on the prairie?

The woman, her white hair tucked beneath a faded crimson floral bonnet, shifted in her rocker a moment before replying. It’s been forty-six years since I arrived.

He nodded. And may I ask, how old are you?

Matilda Jackson pursed her lips. Eighty-four, I suppose.

I imagine you’ve seen a lot of changes on the prairie during your lifetime, haven’t you? the reporter asked as he jotted notes onto paper.

I reckon I have. Matilda rubbed her hands over the worn black Bible in her lap.

What year did you cross the trail?

Summer of ’47.

How long did the journey take by wagon train?

Let’s see. The woman counted off the months on her fingers. We left in May from Saint Charles, northwest of St. Louis, and arrived in Oregon City in November. So six months.

Did you know you can cross the country in six days now in a railroad car? The reporter chuckled.

Matilda nodded. That’s what I’ve heard.

Have you ridden on the railroad?

She shook her head. I don’t intend to.

Have you even seen the railroad?

Once. My son drove the wagon over to Napavine to show me a train as it arrived.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and gazed at her. Tell me, was it really as dangerous on the Oregon Trail as they say?

Matilda stared at him for a moment, then looked away as liquid filled her eyes. A lone tear escaped, trickling down her wrinkled cheek.

One

Saint Charles, Missouri, early April 1847

Why would we leave? Matilda Koontz asked her husband. We have everything we need here in Missouri—the farm, our church, our families, my mother."

As he scrubbed lye soap over his calloused hands, Nicholas peered through the window and squinted. Mattie ...

Matilda set down the bowl of biscuit dough and faced her husband, hands clenched against her abdomen. I’ve heard of entire families perishing on the trip to Oregon. Mountain fever. Snakebites. Accidents. Children run over by wagons.

Nicholas gazed at the billowing clouds of dust swirling above dozens of oxen as rumbling wagons shook the farmhouse walls. He turned to her. Like I’ve said before, the farm isn’t big enough to divide among four boys. We can have 640 free acres out west. Free! Why wouldn’t we go?

Matilda bit her lip and stepped to the wood stove. She hated arguments. Discord unsettled her, tightening her midsection. Especially when she knew they’d likely go west no matter what she said. She plopped rounds of dough into a cast-iron skillet, slid it into the oven, and stirred scrambled eggs on the stovetop while bacon sizzled in another pan.

Her stomach flipped, this time not from fear. Could it be ... ? She calculated backward in her mind. No, most likely just a sour belly, which was probably for the best. If she were expecting, Nicholas would worry about having to divide his farm among five sons instead of four. And she certainly didn’t want to trudge thousands of miles while pregnant.

Nicholas wrapped his arms around her waist and nuzzled her ear. I’ll keep the boys safe. I’ll keep you safe.

Matilda swiveled into his embrace and gazed at her husband. She loved his blue eyes, the color of a deep lake. But she didn’t want to go. She didn’t want to leave her mother, her brothers and sisters, their home.

I know you’ll keep us safe, but traveling into a strange land, it’s almost as if we’re testing God’s providence. We have a good life here. The boys can share the farm. It’s good land, close to the Missouri—

Nicholas tilted her chin. Which flooded not long ago and destroyed farm crops, including ours.

Little feet skittered overhead. The smell of bacon and biscuits filling the small clapboard farmhouse must have awakened her hungry boys.

She looked around the room that served as the kitchen, dining, and sitting area. A wall beside the stone fireplace partitioned off their simple bedroom. The three older boys slept in the loft, while their youngest, Johnny, curled in the corner on the far side of the fireplace beside the grandfather clock her father had built. It was small, but it was home.

The boys descended the ladder one at a time—first Henry, the eldest, followed by Barton, whom they called Bart, and finally Grundy, who rubbed sleep from his eyes. Nicholas tousled each boy’s hair as they scrambled to the rough oak table for their morning meal.

Pa? Eight-year-old Henry poured milk into his cup. Are we goin’ to Oregon?

Matilda frowned as Nicholas settled onto a sturdy handcrafted chair. He reached for his cup as she brought him the tarnished tin coffeepot and a pitcher of fresh cream.

Nicholas glanced at his eldest son. Do you think we should follow those wagons west? Find us some free land in Oregon Territory?

Yes, Henry shouted. We want to go west.

Nicholas. Matilda shook her head slightly and dropped her voice to a whisper. Johnny’s too young to make the journey. Maybe in a few years.

He’ll be three later this month. Her husband looked at their youngest son. What do you say, John? Can you walk two thousand miles to Oregon?

Nodding his head, Johnny slid from the bench and dashed around the table. I walk. I run. Kicking up his heels, he barreled into his mother’s skirt.

She laughed as she steadied her towheaded son but quickly sobered. How could a tiny child survive such an arduous journey? He complains just walking from the wagon into church.

Climb back up if you want breakfast, she told him.

After dishing breakfast onto tin plates, she carried two at a time to the table. She served Nicholas first and then Johnny. As she set Henry’s plate before him, she thought of his eagerness for new adventures, which paralleled his father’s enthusiasm. Bart took after her, a quiet homebody. Henry always dove into a lake; Bart waded in. Grundy was a mix of his two older brothers.

Judging from his morning sprint around the table, Johnny would likely follow in his father’s footsteps.

Matilda perched on a padded stool at the table. Nicholas, will you give thanks?

Grinning at the boys, he nodded. Almighty God, we thank you for Ma’s great cooking and the many blessings you provide. And help Ma change her mind. Amen.

Matilda frowned as she helped Johnny cut his biscuit.

So, are we going to Oregon soon, Pa? Henry asked around a bite of biscuit.

Yes, we’re going—just as soon as your ma agrees.

Matilda shook her head, eyes lowered.

Why not? Henry slammed his tin cup onto the table.

Now, that’s enough. She tilted her head at him. Eat your breakfast.

After they finished, Matilda carried the plates to the counter beside the sink. Nicholas had built it beneath the window so she could enjoy the sunshine while she washed dishes. Attached to the side wall were pegs for cooking utensils.

She gazed outside toward the woods towering behind the barn and chicken coop. Ten years they had lived here. Chopped down trees. Cleared land. Erected buildings. Why would they leave after working so hard to improve this place?

Nicholas swallowed his coffee and stood. Time for chores.

Henry and Bart scooted away from the table.

Can I help, Pa? Grundy tugged on his father’s flannel shirt. Please?

Her husband tilted his head, squinting one eye at his third son, then broke into a grin. He pointed a finger at Grundy and admonished, You need to work, ya hear? Not play.

I will, Pa. I promise.

I go, too. Johnny strutted toward the door.

Matilda quickly swept him into her arms. Hush, now. You can help Pa when you’re older. Her toddler squirmed, pulling chestnut-colored hair from her bun. When the door closed tight behind the older boys, she let Johnny slide down her body to the floor.

She tucked loose strands of hair back into her bun and then scraped the plates, opened the door, and tossed the breakfast scraps to Bo, their large Chesapeake retriever. He gobbled the goodies and barked his gratitude. She stroked his brown fur and stepped back inside.

She glanced at Johnny as he played with kindling near the cold fireplace.

All those stories Nicholas heard as a boy from fur trappers and mountain men stopping at his pa’s tavern and trading post on the busy Boonslick Road probably spurred his wanderlust. Or maybe that old Kentuckian Daniel Boone who lived nearby had filled Nicholas with a desire to explore. Maybe it was just in his blood. His blood, not hers.

Matilda preferred the security of home and nearness of family. She liked having her mother close—not thousands of miles away. She had never needed a fancy house, servants, or slaves. Never slaves. Her daddy had freed all of his before they moved west from Maryland when she was seven.

Come on, little fellow. Matilda knelt beside her youngest son. You want to help Ma wash clothes?

I help.

She smiled at his eagerness. Her boys always liked to help at this age, before the novelty of chores wore off.

Matilda carried her wicker laundry basket outside into the clear, blue skies of a perfect day. She girded herself mentally for yet another disagreement with her hardworking but headstrong husband.

The conversation about emigrating to Oregon would arise again—just as it always did.

Two

Matilda drew the shawl tightly over her shoulders as she stepped from the church into the crisp day. Wisps of fog lingered over the Missouri River like tendrils of angel hair. She buttoned Johnny’s jacket against the chill and lifted him onto the wagon. Perhaps the clouds would disappear, but during April in Missouri, it was unlikely.

Matilda glanced over her shoulder to see Nicholas shake hands with Reverend John Ball outside the white clapboard church.

As they headed home in the wagon, the boys chattered while Matilda gazed at the gray sky and breathed deeply. Pale lavender toothwort and yellow buttercups sprouted amid the purple poppy and red blooms on rosebud shrubs. The growth smelled fresh. How she loved spring in Missouri. Did poppies and roses grow in Oregon? Nicholas was adamant that they find out.

I invited Reverend Ball and his wife to dinner today, Nicholas said. The Wilsons, too.

She swiveled to face him. It might be nice to have a little forewarning.

I gave you a full hour. He grinned.

An hour is scarcely enough.

Nicholas draped his arm over her shoulders and pulled her close. Now, Mattie, you know you can pull together a banquet in no time at all. You’ll have a feast prepared before our guests arrive.

Matilda shook her head, furrowed her brows, and glared at him, although she secretly enjoyed how Nicholas liked to show off her cooking. Her mind flitted over the ingredients in her kitchen—the bread dough rising on the counter, apples and green beans from the root cellar and potatoes in the larder. The boys could butcher a couple of chickens.

Tom and Freda are thinkin’ of moving west to Oregon Territory, Nicholas offered. Thought we could talk about it over dinner.

Matilda pursed her lips, again shaking her head. The extra guests posed few problems, but talk of Oregon set butterflies fluttering in her stomach like fresh laundry on the line. She bowed her head and tamped down the fear that threatened to spill over into tears. How could she leave Missouri, her home since she was seven? She had already left behind everything familiar once; why must she do so again?

Nicholas leaned toward Matilda and covered her clasped hands with one of his. You upset about the company? I didn’t figure you’d have any problem with extra guests for dinner.

No. It’s not the dinner. She searched his blue eyes for any understanding of the fear that plagued her heart at the thought of venturing west. It’s all this talk of Oregon.

Oregon Territory is the promised land of our generation, Mattie. It’s simple. We pack our belongings, travel west on the trail with a wagon train, and claim free land—a square mile, six hundred forty acres. Enough for all of the boys.

But we’d leave our farm, our siblings, my mother ...

Your mother has Philip and Janette and your other brothers and sisters. You stayed home with your folks longer than most. He tilted her chin toward him. Our family can have a great future out west.

After the wagon stopped, Matilda scurried into the clapboard house they called home to swap her wool cape for an apron. Henry! Barton!

Yes, Ma? Bart wiped his hands on his britches.

You boys change out of your Sunday clothes, then please butcher a few plump chickens for dinner.

Matilda listened through the window to her sons’ banter as she rolled pie crusts. Henry chopped off the chickens’ heads and handed the bodies to Bart. One slipped from their hands, the headless body flapping as it ran.

You go get him, Henry ordered. You dropped him.

Did not! Bart chased after the tottering bird and scooped it into his arms before their dog caught it.

Henry opened the door to retrieve the kettle of boiling water. Sheesh! Sure is hot in here! He wiped his brow with a grimy shirtsleeve. Outside, he dipped the bodies into hot water and yanked off the damp feathers. They’d save them for pillows, comforters, even fishing lures.

Her boys were only eight, six, five, and almost three. She’d heard horrific tales of children maimed by rolling wagons or dying of disease while traveling along the Oregon Trail. Blinking back tears, she slid two apple pies into the oven, smeared lard into her big black skillet, broke eggs and stirred them. The last of the lard melted just as the boys brought in the headless, now naked birds. She lit a candle and ran each chicken past the flame to burn off pinfeathers, wrinkling her nose at the stench of singed hair. She pulled out the innards, cut the chickens into pieces, then swirled the legs, wings, thighs, and breasts into an egg mixture, rolled them in seasoned flour, and placed each gently into the frying pan. Lard sizzled and sputtered around the meat.

Matilda was mashing the potatoes just as the rumble of a wagon and voices raised in greeting resounded from the yard.

She wiped her hands on her apron and opened the door. The Wilsons’ half dozen children scattered with her sons in tow. After exchanging pleasantries with Freda Wilson and Emma Ball, the pastor’s wife, she invited them into the tidy little house. Both brought desserts for the meal.

What can we do to help? Emma asked.

Please, sit, Matilda said, happy to have prepared dinner on such short notice. Would you like tea or coffee?

The two nodded as Matilda poured tea from a kettle and smiled. She would miss her friends if they moved west.

Or perhaps she’d be traveling west with Freda.

Are you indeed moving to Oregon Territory? Emma lifted her eyebrows and her teacup at the same time.

We haven’t decided yet. Matilda turned to the cupboard and reached for glass dishes to set on the table. Nicholas wants to go. I’d rather stay here.

Why would you want to stay? Freda’s teacup clattered against the saucer. We can all do much better in Oregon Territory. Why, the men can cut timber and sell it. They can farm the land and sell produce. It’s a wonderful opportunity.

Matilda nodded as she set silverware next to the plates. But don’t you worry about leaving your family here? We may never see them again.

Freda waved her hand. I’ll be happy to put a thousand miles or more between my mother and me. We never did get along.

But ... what about your children? Won’t they miss their grandparents? Matilda placed cast-iron trivets on the table for the hot pans.

Oh, they’ll miss them a bit, but they’ll be fine. Freda shrugged. The adventure excites my boys more than anything, and my daughters just hope to find handsome husbands among those in the wagon train. She wriggled her eyebrows and laughed.

Matilda smiled. Nothing ever ruffled Freda. She was a woman of strong opinions and unlikely to be forced into doing something she didn’t want to do. Matilda wished she could demand that Nicholas stay in Missouri and said as much.

Emma patted Matilda’s hand.

Dear, you know the verses as well as I do. She quoted from Ephesians: ‘Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord.’.

Matilda inhaled a breath. True, but she didn’t have to like it when her husband wanted to uproot her family.

Nicholas is the head of the family. Freda lifted her teacup. You must do as he says.

Like you do? Matilda bit back the words, though she couldn’t imagine headstrong Freda ever submitting to her husband.

Emma choked on her tea, and Matilda bit her lip harder. Perhaps only fear of the unknown held her back.

You must trust God to care for your family if He wants you to move west, Emma said with a slight smile.

But how do I know? Matilda asked. How do I know it’s God’s will and not just Nicholas’?

Voices drifted from outside, and boots stomped on the porch. Matilda checked the oven. A golden brown tinged the crusts and apple cinnamon wafted from the oven door. She pulled out the pies and set them on the windowsill to cool.

Mmmm, something smells mighty good in here. Nicholas winked at Matilda as he stood back to let his guests enter the house. Reverend Ball and Tom Wilson stepped to the washbasin beneath the window.

We were just looking over the place, trying to figure out how much it could sell for. Reverend Ball wiped his hands on a towel and pulled out a chair beside Emma. If you start advertising soon, it might sell before you leave.

Matilda’s brow furrowed. We haven’t decided if we’re going. She poured coffee and set the cup before the preacher.

He laughed, a low contagious rumble, then lifted the cup and nodded to Matilda. You might want to let your husband know that. He sure talks like you’re going.

Nicholas cleared his throat, glancing at his wife as if embarrassed. Mattie’s right. We haven’t settled on it for certain, but I’m doing my best to persuade her. I told her she’s got brothers and sisters who can take care of her mother.

I certainly wouldn’t let worries over my parents hold me back, Freda said. After all, they’ve lived their lives. It’s time for us to live ours.

Oh, my! Emma placed her hand on her friend’s arm. That sounds a little harsh, don’t you think?

But it’s true. Freda shook her head. I’m not saying they’ll die tomorrow. But they decided where they wanted to live and raise their family. We have the right to do the same.

And if Nicholas wants to go, Emma said, patting her husband’s arm and smiling at him, the Bible does say the man is the head of the household.

Indeed it does, the reverend said. Women should respect and obey their husbands.

Emma, ever the good preacher’s wife, always deferred to what he said.

Freda scoffed softly. She looked at Matilda and quoted a different Bible verse. Whither thou goest, will I go.

Matilda couldn’t help herself. I believe Ruth said those words to her mother-in-law. She promised Naomi she wouldn’t leave her.

Freda’s face flushed, and Emma giggled.

Matilda changed the subject. Nicholas, will you call the children?

Her husband stepped onto the porch. Vittles are ready! Come get ’em while they’re hot.

The children crowded into the house, and Reverend Ball raised his voice to pray a blessing over the food.

Matilda pulled out the tin plates and dished crispy fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, and bread onto plates for the younger children. She handed her eldest son a plate.

Thanks, Ma, Henry said.

Frank, the Wilsons’ eldest son at fourteen, piled his plate high. Thanks, Mrs. Koontz.

Their teenage daughters and younger sons paraded past, grabbed forks, and picked up plates to eat outside on the porch. Bart and Grundy followed. Matilda dished up a plate for Johnny and led him outside to the porch.

She then put the rest of the food into serving bowls, which she placed on the table. The couples ate, and Matilda relaxed as the conversation focused on happenings in Missouri and not the Wild West.

Nicholas worked hard, and he wanted badly to move west. Matilda had heard of other men who packed their wives and children into wagons and left, without giving the women a choice. At least Nicholas wouldn’t leave her. He would keep asking until she said yes. But at least he asked. He wanted her to embrace his dream. But could she?

The next evening, Matilda sat near the fireplace, her sewing basket beside her, the boys safely sleeping on their straw beds in the loft. She sighed as her body relaxed. She loved quiet evenings when she could sew, spin wool, or read her Bible. She felt a gurgle and rubbed her palm over her stomach. Was it indigestion? Or perhaps another little one on the way?

She sorted through the basket and lifted the flannel shirt she was stitching for Bart’s seventh birthday next month; she had already finished one for Johnny.

As she attached the cuff to the shirt, Nicholas opened the door and shut it quietly behind him. He washed his hands and face. Farmers worked from dawn till dusk; so did farmers’ wives, for that matter. But the Good Book admonished against idle hands.

And against a rebellious wife who didn’t submit to her husband’s will.

More words from the Bible echoed through her mind: Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh. She supposed the same held true for a woman.

Nicholas stepped to the fireplace mantel, picked up his pipe, and poured tobacco from a pouch. After tamping it down, he struck a match and inhaled deeply, lowering his lanky limbs into a wooden chair.

A few minutes passed in companionable silence. As Nicholas puffed on his pipe, his eyes stared into the blue and orange flames of the fire. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. We need to talk.

Matilda knotted a stitch, folded the shirt, and tucked it into the basket, her mind already prepared for the conversation. Her neck stiffened.

We have four boys. This farm isn’t large enough for one family, much less five. He sucked on his pipe and exhaled slowly, circling gray smoke rising toward the loft. We need to go west. We can give our boys a better future in Oregon.

Matilda crossed her arms over her chest. Their roots are in Missouri. Your roots are here.

But the government’s giving away land in Oregon, just for the taking. Many have moved west in the past six years; the best land will be gone if we don’t leave soon.

Nicholas kept his voice low, but Matilda heard the scamper of feet above. Probably Henry, eager to see if she’d finally agree to leave. Or perhaps Bart, worried that she would.

Matilda sighed and looked at Nicholas briefly before gazing into the stone fireplace as flames devoured the wood.

But Nicholas—

Now, Mattie ... He held up a hand and stepped to the corner desk. I’ve heard what you said. But listen ... He picked up a book and flipped to where he had left a loose slip of paper. She had seen the volume: The Emigrants’ Guide to Oregon and California by Lansford Hastings.

He struck a match, lit a candle, and knelt beside her. He began to read. ‘It is a very beautiful and productive valley ... well-timbered, well-watered ... with a superabundance of all the grasses ... it is admirably suited to agricultural and grazing purposes.’ Doesn’t the Willamette Valley sound grand?

Matilda closed her eyes and pictured green meadows where the boys could farm and raise their families.

It sounds like paradise—if we all arrive safely. She shook her head. But I’ve heard so many stories ...

It’s safer all the time. Nicholas rubbed her back. They’re building military posts along the trail. Besides, it’s our patriotic duty to go. In fact, President Polk said it’s our manifest destiny to settle the land all the way west to the Pacific Ocean.

It was hard to dispute Nicholas’ logic. Still, her stomach fluttered in misgiving.

But what about Ma? She whispered the words, guilt pricking her conscience at the thought of abandoning her mother, a widow since Pa died seven years ago.

Nicholas exhaled deeply, breath whistling between his teeth. Maybe she could come along.

Matilda chuckled without humor. Not likely. You’ve heard her complain about everyone moving west. She fought back tears swimming in her eyes. She’s showing her age, and she’s the only grandparent our boys have left.

Nicholas stood, towering over her. You took care of your mother for years. She can stay with Philip and Sarah, or live with Janette and Hiram, or one of the others. You have seven siblings. You’re not solely responsible for your mother just because you’re the youngest. He bent to grasp her hands, his thumbs caressing her palms. Please, Mattie, say we can go.

Nicholas would keep pleading with her until she agreed.

Please? He knelt beside her chair and picked up her hands. You know it’s the best for our boys.

Is it? Her voice trembled as she posed the question. Will they be safe on the journey?

I will do everything to keep them safe. Nicholas gazed into her eyes. I promise.

She sighed. I don’t know ...

Please say yes, Mattie. I don’t ask much, but this is so important.

Her strong husband never did ask much. He thanked her often for everything she did for him and their boys. Was his request too much? It seemed like a lot, but he was her husband. And the Bible told her to submit to him.

As she nodded slightly, her heart fluttered with excitement tempered by misgivings. Truth be told, she could survive anywhere, as long as she had her husband and children. Silently, she asked God for His providence on the journey west.

The tension in her shoulders released as she stepped behind the curtain to their bed.

Nicholas smiled, blew out the candle, and wrapped his arms around her. You’re a good woman, Mattie.

Three

Early May 1847, Saint Charles, Missouri

Nicholas lifted her cedar chest of goods by the handles and strode out the farmhouse door. Matilda followed him to the narrow wagon. Axes, spades, and hoes dangled from the rig’s outer walls, with everything else they needed for the next six months crammed inside.

When they’d told the boys about their decision to go west a few weeks ago, Henry shouted Yee-haw! while Bart kept his head lowered. His subdued reaction, though, was nothing compared with the histrionics of her mother.

The sapphire blue in her mother’s dress reflected the shimmer in her eyes, but when she heard their news, those eyes turned to ice. She collapsed into a rocker in her son Philip’s home. My grandsons ... I’ll never see them again. Matilda ached with grief for her mother, for her sons, for herself, even though she knew her place was beside her husband. She and Nicholas both invited her mother to join them, but she rejected the notion.

Then, when William, Philip and Sarah’s eldest son, said he and his wife were going west too, her mother left the dining room table and took to her bed for days.

Matilda sighed. They had scrambled the past month to buy all their supplies and sell their furniture, animals, and household goods. Reverend Ball and Emma loved the grandfather clock although it grieved Matilda to part with it, the last piece crafted by her father before his death. Giving it away was like saying goodbye to her father again.

Very little actually fit inside the long, narrow wagon other than the supplies needed to simply survive on the trail—crates and bags of flour, sugar, salt, bacon in brine, dried peas, fruit, coffee, tea, tobacco, plus cooking and eating utensils, tents, quilts, blankets, sheets, tools, and of course guns, knives, and gunpowder. One box contained cakes of soap, another held saleratus for baking, and a third, candles. Oh, and an extra pair of shoes for everyone as they’d be walking most of the way—and twice the amount of food they’d normally eat because of all the walking.

Nicholas slathered tar on the bottom of the wagon so it wouldn’t leak while crossing rivers and linseed oil on the white canvas covering its bowed wooden strips for waterproofing.

The wagon was heavy, requiring six oxen to pull it.

Matilda glanced one last time around the now-empty farmhouse. She would miss this house filled with happy memories of baking, cooking, reading by the fire, celebrating holidays ... birthing babies. She felt a flutter and rubbed her palm over her stomach. She hoped it was indigestion.

After walking outside, she offered a silent goodbye to the farm she and her husband had built over their ten years of marriage.

You all set? Her husband grinned as Johnny hopped toward the high seat, arms outstretched. Here, let me give you a boost.

Nicholas swept an arm under the boy and tossed him into the air, laughing. He settled their youngest son behind the wagon seat. Matilda bit her trembling lip and clutched her Book of Common Prayer. She had already packed Gunn’s Domestic Medicine into her chest of goods, hoping they wouldn’t need it but prepared in case they did. And thanks to Hastings’ book, she knew what emergency supplies to pack—bandages, hartshorn for snakebites, laudanum, castor oil, camphor, morphine, quinine, herbs, and citric acid to prevent scurvy.

She smiled her thanks as Nicholas lifted her to the