Before I can force out a thanks, I notice Joe packing leftover cornmeal cake into my saddlebag. “It’s going to go bad with no one here to eat it,” he says.

“Please stay,” Red Jack says. “But only so I don’t get demoted back to unskilled labor.”

“We emptied the whole boat,” I protest. “There’re no more stalls to muck. You’ll sleep in every morning like the lazy cat you are.”

He frowns at me, just like he did that first day, but now I know he means it kindly.

That’s about all the good-byes I can take, so I pull my hat brim low to hide my watery eyes and head ashore. Peony paws the ground, itching to stretch her legs, but I hang around, pretending to check my gear while Mr. Joyner haggles with some longshoremen about pay.

“Need help loading everything?” I ask Mr. Joyner.

“I’m not paying you,” he says.

“I didn’t ask for pay.”

He hesitates, but he nods. “I’d be much obliged.”

As I heft a trunk toward the wagon, he says, “You might as well go north with us, at least as far as Cape Girardeau.”

My relief is short-lived. Mrs. Joyner, who sits on the wagon bench, jumps in with, “Now, darling, don’t impose yourself on the lad. I’m certain he has plans of his own.”

I angrily heave the trunk over the side, and it lands with a too-loud clunk.

“There’s only one direction to go,” Mr. Joyner says, “and the lad might as well travel with us. It’s too late to send him scouting ahead, and there’s no point in making him wait behind when he’s traveling light—he’ll simply overtake us. He can help load and carry, and I don’t even have to pay him.”

“That’s fine by me,” I’m quick to add. It’s not fine. It’s highway robbery, is what it is. But it’s also better than being alone.

Mrs. Joyner folds her hands into her lap and frowns.

We wait while Mr. Joyner hires two men who are relatively clean and able to provide references. Even so, we’re another hour getting all the furniture loaded. Mr. Joyner climbs onto the bench, snaps the reins over the oxen, and the wagon lurches forward. Peony and I follow, Coney running circles at her heels.

We glimpse the Mississippi River through breaks in the trees as we ride along. I keep Peony behind the wagon and out of Mrs. Joyner’s sights, which ensures that I inhale buckets of dirt and mud flecks. Andy and Olive peek at me through the bonnet, their cherub faces jerking up and down with each rut in the road.

We travel less than five miles before night begins to fall. The wagon slows and pulls over to the side. I steer Peony around and discover that we’ve reached a small farmhouse.

A small slave girl, no more than ten years old, answers the door and runs to fetch her master. He’s a lean older man, with skin like weathered hickory.

“Hello, good sir,” Mr. Joyner says. “My family and I—”

“What state are you from?” the old man asks.

“Tennessee,” says Mr. Joyner.

He grunts. “As long as you aren’t from Illinois or Ohio or any of them places.”

I gape at him, realizing he means free states. Maybe things are different near the frontier, but no one in Georgia ever refused to help my father because of his Yankee ways.

The old man steps inside to have a brief conversation with his wife, and they reach an agreement. “We can provide accommodations and provisions. Supper and breakfast. You’ll have to share the beds.”

Mr. Joyner offers many expressions of gratitude, as well as a few coins. After taking care of the animals, we go inside and find a cozy, warm cabin that smells of dried apples and wet soot. We sit around a plank table beside a stone hearth. The table’s centerpiece is a wooden vase, filled with wrapping-paper flowers dyed yellow, and I swallow against the sudden sting in my throat.

The tiny slave girl brings a tray of salt pork and onions, which isn’t nearly as tasty as Fiddle Joe’s cooking but still hits the spot. The men trade news, most of it focused on the gold in California and the settlement in Oregon territory. When the table is cleared, the old man and his slave drag a feather mattress out from the bedroom and place it before the hearth.

“I reckon you and your family can sleep here tonight. Your hired hands can have the back porch, and your boy can make do in the barn.”

Mrs. Joyner bristles. “He is not our boy. He’s traveling with us temporarily.”

I don’t understand how that woman can be so hot and cold, so kind one moment and so uppish the next. But I know better than to stay where I’m not wanted, so I excuse myself and slip into the barn.

“Looks like I’m sleeping with you tonight, girl,” I say to Peony. “Just like always.”

I’m so tired it’s only a few minutes until I drift off. A whisper startles me awake.

“Mr. McCauley?” Mrs. Joyner’s voice.

Lantern light pools around me, and I tense up in my bed of straw, but I don’t turn over. “What?” Maybe she wants her blanket back.

“I . . . um . . .” She falls silent.

“Spit it out, ma’am. I’ve very tired.”

She gasps a little, then says all in a rush: “Mr. Joyner says he wants you gone by morning.”

“What?” I flip around to face her. “Why? I haven’t been any trouble. I work hard.”

Her face is even more prim by lantern light, her features sharp and mean. “We face a grave challenge, Mr. McCauley, as we head into the godforsaken wilderness. I must shelter my children, give them a chance at a good life. That means protecting them from . . .” She falls silent again, and a muscle in her cheek twitches.

“From people like me?”

“I am a mother, and a mother knows a runaway when she sees one. I’m sure you understand. Perhaps if you had references . . .”

“Does Mr. Joyner really know you’re here?”

Her lips press into a thin line.

“Pardon my saying, ma’am, but this is hardly the Christian thing to do.”

“I gave you that quilt!”

“And I suppose it made you feel good about yourself. Here, take it back.” I start to untangle myself from it.

She hesitates. Then: “No. It’s yours. But, please . . .”

I let her plea hang in the cold night air for a spell, until she shifts on her feet and drops her gaze. Finally, I say, “I’ll be gone by morning.”