She searched for their precious lucifer matches and found them on the counter
under an overturned pot, miraculously still dry. There did not seem to be any leaks in Mourning’s roof. She dragged one of the stumps over and sat on it, shivering, her back pressed against the logs of the front wall. When the rain lightened to a drizzle she crouched by the bed to check that her things weren’t standing in a puddle, but the water seemed to be draining toward the door. Had
Uncle Scruggs been that clever? Purposely built the floor with just the slightest incline? She checked the lanterns, punk wood, and food stuffs; Mourning had
wrapped them all and set them on the counter against the wall, where they would
be protected from the rain. Then she found her wooden clogs and ventured
outside.
She nearly slid on the wet ground, but caught her balance. Wouldn’t that be wonderful, she thought , to be not only chilled and wet, but covered with mud and with no dry wood for a fire? She took small, careful steps to check on the woodpile. The sheet of canvas was in place and the back wall of the cabin
seemed to be offering sufficient protection.
Then she went toward the barn, where she saw that Mourning had followed
her suggestion and wedged the wagon into the front corner. She stepped closer and studied his cozy nest – he had prepared a thick bed of twigs, placed his mattress over them, wheeled the wagon in place, and draped sheets of canvas
over its sides. Still, he was on the ground and who knew how much more rain would fall. She stood silently for a moment, listening. He must be asleep.
She turned to leave, then stopped and said in a hesitant whisper. “I came to say I’m sorry. If you’re getting wet, please come to the cabin. The part under the
roof is dry, except for the floor.”
The edge of the canvas flapped. “I be fine in here. Nice and cozy.”
She moved closer and saw the raft of evenly placed roof poles, as wide as the
wagon, that his mattress rested upon. The water would have to stand five or six
inches deep for him to get wet.
“You knew it was going to rain, didn’t you?”
“Been sayin’ so.”
“I mean tonight. You knew it was going to rain tonight.”
“Thought it might.”
“You could have told me, warned me to get ready for it,” she said softly.
“Guess I coulda.”
Another downpour began and she turned to scurry back to the cabin, but the
canvas flap opened wide and Mourning’s voice commanded. “Come on, get in
here, ’fore you be catchin’ it.”
She hesitated, but the sheet of rain presented a convincing argument. She
wiggled in, her head to his feet, hugging the cloak that she had pulled on, and struggling to keep it and her muslin nightgown pulled down past her knees. He
squeezed to the far side, leaving space between them.
“I’ll just wait here a few minutes, until it lets up again,” she said.
“Ain’t no place for you to lie down in there,” he said. “You think you gonna
sleep standin’ up by the wall? Here.” He was using a sheet of canvas for a
blanket and shook it out to cover both of them. “Just pretend I be a lump of clay and get some sleep.”
Olivia’s head shook slightly as she imagined the look on Mabel Mears’ face,
if she could see them now. Well, what did that cow think she would have done?
Olivia stayed put. Mourning snored steadily and her mind was blank as she felt
herself dragged down into sleep.
Chapter Twenty
A few hours later a full bladder woke Olivia. She’d forgotten where she was
and tried to sit up, banging her head against the axle and yelping, but this elicited
