only a whistling snore from Mourning. Mortified, she carefully rolled onto her elbows and extracted herself from beneath the wagon. It was no longer raining,
but the air felt wet, more a mist than a drizzle. The sky was still dark, but she knew she was done sleeping. After she hobbled to the outhouse on her clogs and
splashed water over her hands and face, she lit the lantern on the kitchen counter
and surveyed her soggy home.
Oh Lord, the mattress. She’d been so busy bundling up her bedding, she hadn’t given a thought to her lovely new mattress. It was soaked. Dispirited, she
slumped down onto one of the stump chairs, elbows on her knees. The long day
of drudgery had not yet begun and already she was drained of energy. And where
was she supposed to sleep tonight? Making do in an emergency as she had last
night was one thing; the idea of tucking in with Mourning again was quite
impossible.
For a moment she wondered if there might be any rooms to let in that dismal-
looking town. That had, after all, been her original plan – before she knew what
it felt like to haul water and chop wood all day. Walk an hour, two hours, alone
in the twilight? Then back in the morning, worn out before she’d even started her chores? No thank you.
Tears began to run down her cheeks, though she knew there was nothing to
cry about. Had the cabin burned down? Indians attacked them? Mourning fallen
ill? No, nothing bad had happened. So what’s wrong, little girl, why are you crying? Olivia imagined a kindly gentleman bending down to comfort her. She
cringed when she heard her whiny response. It rained last night. Sob, sob, boo-
hoo. A short, sharp laugh escaped her, but the tears continued to flow. Her shoulders shook until her body ached even more. Finally she rose and wiped the
backs of her hands across her eyes. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and get on with it. Just get on with it.
She managed to salvage some dry wood from the bottom of the pile and got a
fire going in the fireplace. Then she dragged one of the wicker baskets from under the bed and was relieved to find that her clothes were only damp. She pulled out a work dress, laid it near the fire, and glared at it. Who said she had to
wear that stupid thing?
“You got any coffee cookin’?” Mourning’s voice startled her from the other
side of the flap.
“Oh. Good morning.” She pulled the canvas aside. “I’ll get some on now.
There’s a fire going in here. Come in.” She reached for the coffee pot.
He did, but then squinted at her and turned away, obviously uncomfortable.
She looked down at her chest and was horrified. Even in the dim light she could
see the wet patches of her chemise clinging to the hard little knobs of her nipples. She pulled her cloak around her and flushed red.
“I didn’t think. I just got up and my clothes are all wet,” she stammered.
“Any a them peaches left?”
“No. Are your clothes dry?”
“Surely are.”
“I was thinking, could I maybe borrow a pair of your trousers? Just for
today?”
“Sure could. But, my, my, my, Lady Grody gonna have a conniption fit.”
“When Lady Grody comes out here and starts hunting deer, hauling water,
and splitting firewood, she can tell me what to wear.”
“I go get you a pair. Shirt to go with ’em too.”
