For a long while only the wheels spoke.
Then Naomi whispered, “Do you think he means it?”
Clara looked toward the front where Gideon sat straight-backed, reins loose in his hands, his hat brim shadowing most of his face. “I think,” she said carefully, “he means exactly what he says. Men like him don’t waste words decorating lies.”
That first night they camped by a creek at the foot of the mountains. Gideon made a fire, tethered the mule, and set his bedroll on the far side of the wagon without comment, as though it never occurred to him to do otherwise. Clara cooked the beans. Naomi prayed over the meal with a voice that shook and then steadied. Gideon bowed his head for the prayer. When Naomi said amen, his deep voice followed it.
After supper, with the stars opening above them one by one like quiet witnesses, Clara finally asked, “Why?”
Gideon poked the fire once with a stick. “Why what?”
“Why spend that kind of money on strangers?”
He was silent long enough that she thought he might not answer. Then he said, “Because once, a long time ago, I got back from war too late to save my own family from fever. A man gets one grief like that and it teaches him to recognize certain things on sight.”
Clara said nothing.
“What things?” Naomi asked softly.
