Chapter Three
South Trace
By the third morning after Eleanor's wedding, Caroline had acquired all of Eleanor's former duties and kept every one of her own.
This was not precisely true. Eleanor remained co-captain, oversaw the rear wagons, settled disputes, checked camps, and watched Nathaniel's injured shoulder with such attention that he could not lift a spoon without considering whether it was worth the argument.
But Caroline had the lead Whitaker wagon, Father's papers, Charlotte's mileage questions, Rebecca's reports about the teams, Martha's supply concerns, Lydia's complaints, Grace's missing shawl pin, and Lucy's bonnet ribbon, which had torn for the second time.
“Hold still,” Caroline said.
Lucy sat on the wagon tongue while Caroline stitched the ribbon. “I am holding still.”
“Your head moved.”
“My head is attached to me.”
“An inconvenience.”
Martha called from the fire. “The sugar chest is low.”
“Charlotte recorded two pounds lost at the river.”
“I know what was lost. I am telling you what remains.”
Mr. Coleman approached, leading his ox. “Miss Rebecca said the sore is improved, but I should ask whether your family has more clean cloth.”
“Martha has cloth.”
“Caroline,” Martha said.
Caroline tied off the ribbon. “I am merely directing him.”
“Direct him somewhere else.”
Caroline sent Mr. Coleman to Rebecca, gave Lucy her bonnet, checked the sugar, reduced the amount planned for biscuits, and returned to the wagon before the company moved.
Thomas sat on the tailboard copying mileage figures from Charlotte's book.
“What are you doing?” Caroline asked.
“Writing.”
“I can see that.”
“Then the lesson yesterday was successful.”
Charlotte sat beside him, smiling over her inventory. “He is copying the corrected distances into his route book.”
“That is his work.”
“He is also adding the supply camps,” Charlotte said. “Which is mine.”
Caroline looked between them. “Why?”
Thomas dipped the pen. “Because accurate routes include places where a wagon company can remain without starving its animals.”
“You should prepare your horse.”
“Already done.”
“Your equipment?”
“Packed.”
“Nathaniel may need—”
“He sent me here.”
Caroline stopped.
Thomas capped the ink. “Sit down.”
“I am about to drive.”
“In twenty minutes.”
“There is work.”
“There will remain work after you sit for ten minutes.”
“That is not comforting.”
Charlotte closed the inventory book. “I will wake you.”
“I am not sleeping.”
Caroline woke twenty minutes later on her bedroll beneath the wagon, with Thomas's coat folded beneath her head and the sounds of the company forming around her.
She sat up so quickly the wagon wheel seemed to tilt.
Charlotte stood at the wagon tongue with the reins ready. “Good morning.”
“Why did you not wake me?”
“Thomas said not to.”
“Thomas does not command this wagon.”
“Neither do you while unconscious.”
Caroline pushed the hair from her face. Beyond the wagon, she saw Thomas mounting several vehicle lengths back. He began speaking to Mr. Hall and did not look toward her.
She felt rested.
It was infuriating.
At the noon break, she found him kneeling beside a wheel with his map board balanced on the hub.
“You told Charlotte not to wake me.”
“Yes.”
“You interfered with my responsibilities.”
“Charlotte drove safely. Rebecca checked both teams. Martha issued breakfast without famine. Lydia complained with her usual vigor. Your responsibilities survived.”
“That is not the point.”
Thomas looked up. “What is the point?”
Caroline had several answers. None sounded sensible aloud. “I decide when I rest.”
“You decided not to.”
“Exactly.”
“A poor decision remains a decision. I understand.”
She folded her arms. “You are not apologizing.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you needed sleep.”
“You do not know what I need.”
Thomas's expression changed. The humor left it.
“No,” he said. “You make certain of that.”
He lifted the map board and walked away.
Caroline stood beside the wheel, angry with him for the words and with herself because they hurt.
*****
THOMAS AVOIDED CAROLINE for the rest of the break.
This required effort. Caroline was everywhere.
She checked the oxen, divided water, answered Mrs. Turner's question about damp flour, found twine for Grace, and prevented Lydia from trading two needles for a ribbon no one needed. She did all of it with the calm efficiency of a woman who believed the world would fail if she stopped touching it.
Thomas understood useful work. Work had supported him since he was fifteen. A map did not ask whether he was lonely. A survey line did not notice if he left after three months.
Caroline's work was different. It bound her to people. Every task was a small cord tied between her and someone she loved. There were so many cords he wondered how she breathed.
That evening, Lucy's bonnet tore again. Caroline discovered the ribbon hadn't failed; Lucy had tied it to Grace's shawl while they walked and waited to see who noticed first. Grace had noticed when the wind nearly strangled her.
“I was studying attachment,” Lucy explained.
“Study it with two fence posts,” Rebecca said.
Caroline sat beneath the wagon with needle and thread. Thomas copied mileage nearby. He asked why Caroline mended every bonnet when the owners possessed hands.
“Their hands create the damage.”
Martha heard and brought three additional repairs: Lydia's pocket, Grace's cuff, and a stocking no one claimed. Caroline stared at the pile.
Thomas picked up Lydia's pocket. “Show me the stitch.”
“You survey land.”
“Land rarely requires thread. I seek range.”
His first stitches leaned like frightened fence posts. Caroline made him remove them. The second line held. Lydia inspected his work and said the pocket now pointed east. Thomas replied that this would make handkerchief retrieval more accurate.
Soon every sister had taken back one item to mend herself.
Caroline finished only Lucy's bonnet while supervising the rest. The repairs were uneven but serviceable.
Thomas wrote a small note in the margin of his book.
Caroline later discovered it read: Whitaker labor redistributed without fatalities.
The company moved again, not wanting to waste a minute of time they could be traveling. Near midafternoon, Mr. Daugherty rode forward.
“The road is turning west,” he said. “Your bearing sent us southwest.”
Thomas glanced at the sun. “The trace bends around low ground.”
“That compass of hers is too small for route work.”
Caroline heard. She drew the team to a slower walk and took the brass instrument from her pocket.
“The road has turned seven degrees north of yesterday's line,” she said. “It will meet the older trace near the creek.”
Mr. Daugherty looked at Thomas. “Is that so?”
Thomas could have answered. Instead he said, “Ask Miss Whitaker.”
Caroline's eyes met his.
She pointed toward a distant ridge. “The cottonwoods there run along water. Father's notes place the joining creek west-northwest of our last camp. The bearing and the land agree.”
Mr. Daugherty grunted. “A road is easier to trust.”
“Then you may wait until one arrives,” Caroline said. “The rest of us are traveling.”
Rebecca laughed from the second wagon.
By evening, they reached the creek exactly where Caroline predicted.
Thomas opened his route book beside the fire. He recorded the southern trace, the water, and the joining point. Under the bearing he wrote: Observed by Caroline Whitaker.
She sat across from him repairing Lucy's bonnet again.
“You need not put my name there.”
“It is your bearing.”
“It is Father's compass.”
“The compass did not read itself.”
Caroline drew the needle through the ribbon. “Father made the plan.”
“Your father did not travel this ground today.”
Her hands went still.
Thomas waited for anger. Instead, she looked toward the dark line of the creek. “No,” she said. “He did not.”
Thomas closed the book. “I am sorry for what I said earlier.”
“Which part?”
“That you prevent people from knowing what you need.”
“Do you no longer believe it?”
“I believe apologizing is sometimes wiser than being correct.”
She glanced at him. “Nathaniel taught you that?”
“Eleanor.”
Caroline smiled.
“The distance is wrong,” she said.
Thomas looked down. “By how much?”
“A quarter mile.”
“You could have led with that.”
“You were apologizing. I did not wish to interrupt.”