edge of the fire. After she burned her tongue eating some rice straight out of the
pot, she put the lid back on, and stuck the pot in the back of the wagon, the spoon still inside. Then she went to the river to wash again. After she combed her hair and tied it back, she stared at her dim reflection in the broken piece of
mirror that still hung on the wall. It seemed impossible, but a face that looked just like Olivia Killion stared back at her. How could she look the same?
She hitched up the team and hung the lantern on the wagon post, the way
Mourning had done on their way out. Then she pulled the bake kettle out of the
fire, doused the flames, filled all the skins with water, and took a last look at the
pathetic little hovel she was abandoning. She left the door standing open – her silent protest at being forced to leave – climbed onto the wagon, and said
“Giddap.” Before she had gone a hundred paces she reined the team in, jumped
down, and ran back to the cabin to pull the door shut and put the latch on. It had
been her home, after all.
About three miles down the road she saw an opening into the woods. It was
big enough for her to take the wagon off the road and be completely hidden among the trees. Would Filmore come looking for her tomorrow when he
discovered her gone? Good thing he wasn’t a hunter. What was it Iola had said?
He couldn’t follow a blood trail in the snow.
She unyoked the oxen and gave them feed and water. She was too tired to
bother hobbling them and patted each of their noses, asking them to please not
run off and leave her. Then she lifted the lid off the pot and mechanically ladled
a few spoonfuls of cold rice into her mouth. Exhausted, she climbed onto her lumpy mattress – still in her clothes and work shoes – put the lantern out, and fell into dreamless sleep, hugging the shotgun.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Olivia woke early in the morning, damp with dew. There was no blissful
moment in which she greeted the new day with no recollection of where she was
and why. She knew the instant her eyes blinked open. Feeling weak, hollow, and
alone, she climbed down from the mattress and moved away from the wagon to
empty her bladder. After splashing water on her hands and face, she stood still,
listening to the woods.
All she could think about was her room at home – the quilt Mrs. Hardaway
and her friends had made, the way the late afternoon sun slanted through the windows, the stack of books on her nightstand. Then her stomach growled,
prompting her to lift the lid of the bake kettle. Too stiff and tired to bother looking for a knife, she took the spoon from the pot of rice and jabbed it into the
burnt crust, carving out large chunks of the soft inside. She smeared them with
strawberry jam and went to sit on a fallen log, near the oxen. Dixby stamped a
foot and pressed his nose against her back.
“I know, I know. I’m supposed to feed you first.” Olivia made a circle with her shoulder to nudge him away. “But you weren’t up all night packing, were you?” She turned to look into his placid eyes. “But I will say, you were both very
good boys, not escaping into the night.”
She licked her fingers and wiped them on her pants before she rose, stretched,
and bent to touch her toes while she counted to ten. Then she tended to the oxen,
patting their backs and saying, “Happy now?”
The sun was barely peeking over the horizon; it was much too early to go to
Jeremy’s. What should she do while she was waiting? She considered creeping
back to the woods outside her cabin and watching for Filmore. Did they really expect her to be sitting there, waiting for him? How stupid could they be? If she
lay in wait for him, she’d know whether he’d come carrying a weapon and what
