If only she knew of some time they’d be gone and arrive home together, then
she wouldn’t have to sneak up on them. She could be waiting for them inside their cabin. They’d open the door and find her sitting in Iola’s rocker, both barrels trained on them. The shotgun would bring one of them down; she’d have
the pistol to finish off the other. Then Olivia’s eyes opened wide, and she sat up
straight. Didn’t they pride themselves on being steady churchgoers? That meant
their cabin must stand empty for a few hours every Sunday morning. Anyone
could walk in.
What day of the week was it? Olivia had no idea. What day had it been the
morning she’d walked into their trap? She couldn’t remember. Wait, hadn’t Iola
said something about today being Friday? No, tomorrow. Tomorrow was Friday,
Filmore’s day to take eggs and butter to the store. So Sunday was the day after
tomorrow. She could wait that long. Not in the cabin. Not with Filmore supposed
to come tomorrow.
I’ll spend what is left of this night and the next camped in the woods. Some
time tomorrow I’ll go say my goodbyes to Jeremy. I’ll ask him what day it is, just
to be sure. And then maybe Jeremy will remember that I left for Detroit onSaturday, a whole day before they were killed on Sunday. Except who’s going to
know what day they were killed? It might be weeks before anyone finds them.
How on earth will they know it happened on Sunday morning? Because they’ll
be wearing their church clothes, that’s how. And they’ll have been seen inchurch, alive, the day after Jeremy will say I left for Detroit. Weeks after he’llsay Mourning left the area.
She picked up the lantern and walked through the cabin and barn, making a
mental list of what she would take with her to Detroit. She set aside those things
that she needed to keep handy, in order to survive a day and a half in the woods.
There wasn’t much food in the cabin. She mixed up bread dough and left it to
rise, before setting a pot of rice at the edge of the fire. There was strawberry jam, the pickled venison, some dried-out apples, and two more jars of peaches. We should be grateful for our bodily needs, she thought. Seeing to them is sometimes all that keeps us from losing our minds.
Then she noticed the pile of clothing lying on the bed. She walked over and
picked up a few items, fingering the cloth. Who had put this here? Then she remembered. That morning, before she’d left for the Stubblefields, she’d hung
up laundry. This brown work dress had been on the line. Filmore must have
taken them down when he’d come over to feed and water the oxen. She
shuddered and was enraged at the thought of him touching her things.
Should she pack up Mourning’s things and take them back to Five Rocks?
What if he came back to the cabin looking for them? He’d just have to manage
without. She had to take them away. If he’d left three weeks ago, why would his
things still be here? Should she leave a note for him on the table? No. If he had
left before she did, there was no logic in her leaving a note. Maybe she could leave a note for him down in the cellar; no one else was likely to find it there.
No, she couldn’t take the chance.
Then she remembered the Hawken rifle, hidden it that tree. That was where
they were supposed to meet in an emergency, and this was a bigger emergency
than either of them had ever imagined. She would leave the rifle in the tree, but
put a note for Mourning in it. She looked for a scrap of paper, but had to tear a
page out of her journal. What could she say? It had to be something no one else
would understand. In the end she wrote only “Gone to 5R.” She carefully rolled
