Chapter Three
Angela shifted uncomfortably in the cramped, shadowed corner of the wagon, her back pressed against a barrel of flour that dug unkindly into her shoulder.
The canvas cover rustled above her, allowing thin streams of sunlight to filter through, enough for her to guess it was midmorning.
Her legs had gone numb from being curled in the same position, but she dared not stretch them for fear of being discovered.
Last night, with her heart pounding in her chest, she’d slipped into the wagon filled with supplies.
She’d waited until the camp was quiet, long after the last of the fires had dwindled to embers, and slipped between the rows of wagons with as much stealth as her nerves would allow.
The wagon she’d chosen was toward the back, modestly stocked with barrels, crates, and coils of rope, giving her just enough room to tuck herself out of sight.
She had planned to wait until they were well underway to reveal herself later and quietly blend into the larger caravan.
Surely, with so many families and so much bustling about, no one would notice an extra traveler tucked at the back of a supply wagon. Her plan, if not foolproof, was simple enough: Keep her head down, stay useful, and make herself known only when she had no other choice.
She knew the risks but clung to the hope of a fresh start out west—a place where no one knew her past, her losses, or the heaviness that she carried.
A pang of worry gnawed at her as she listened to the steady creak of the wagon wheels and the distant murmur of voices outside. She’d hoped this journey might feel freeing, yet here she was, hiding like a stowaway, hoping desperately not to be discovered.
To quell her restless and worried spirit, Angela reached into her worn satchel, fingers brushing against the familiar leather cover of her Bible.
She held it close, letting the warmth of the filtered sunlight fall across its cracked spine.
It had been a gift from Reverend Mason, the minister in Maysville—a kind soul who had been the only real friend she’d known after she moved in with the Baxters.
He’d welcomed her to the church with open arms, his gentle smile and compassionate gaze making her feel seen in a way she hadn’t since the fire.
When her relatives had been harsh, he had been patient, sensing her pain without ever pressing her to speak.
She’d spent many afternoons at the small chapel, helping him sweep and organize, her heart easing in his quiet presence.
But only a few months after her arrival, the ministry had called him away to a new congregation, and she had felt his absence like a loss all over again.
Before he’d left, he had given her his Bible. She remembered how his hands had held it with a reverence that spoke of years of faith and study, how he had pressed it into her hands with a parting smile.
“Angela,” he’d said. “May this bring you comfort when you feel alone, and may it remind you that God’s hand is in every journey, even the ones that are hardest to understand.”
With a sigh, she opened the Bible, the thin, delicate pages crinkling softly under her fingertips.
She held it to the small stream of sunlight peeking through a crack in the canvas, enough to illuminate the words.
Her eyes fell upon a passage in Isaiah, one she had read countless times when loneliness had settled in:
“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you.”
The words sank into her, filling her heart with a sense of calm.
Though she was far from Maysville and even further from anyone who truly knew her, she felt, somehow, that Reverend Mason’s kindness lingered in those verses.
The familiarity of the words grounded her, reminding her that even here, huddled in a stranger’s wagon, God had not abandoned her.
A warmth she could not fully explain spread through her chest, easing her fears, as though the verse itself was an unspoken promise.
Her eyes drifted to another verse.
“I will go before you and make the crooked places straight.”
She closed her eyes, the verse a quiet reassurance, a reminder that she was not lost or forsaken, even if her journey felt uncertain.
Though she had chosen this path out of desperation, part of her dared to hope that perhaps it wasn’t a mistake—that perhaps God was guiding her westward, to a new beginning she couldn’t yet see.
Angela tucked the Bible back into her satchel and hugged it close, the leather worn and warm against her fingers. She murmured a small prayer, simple yet earnest.
“Lord, be with me. Lead me somewhere I can belong.”
Outside, the voices of the travelers drifted back to her in snatches, mingling with the creak of wheels and the steady rhythm of horses’ hooves. She took a deep breath, her fingers still lingering on the Bible’s spine. No matter what lay ahead, she reminded herself, she was not alone.
***
At around midday, the wagon jolted to a stop, and Angela’s stomach twisted with urgency. She hadn’t anticipated just how uncomfortable a day spent hidden would be.
Waiting until she heard the sounds of families unpacking their midday meals and children’s laughter drifting through the air, she seized her chance.
Carefully lifting the edge of the canvas, she peeked out. No one was looking her way—most were focused on setting up for lunch.
Holding her breath, she slipped down from the wagon and darted out of sight, her heart pounding as she hurried behind a grove of trees.
Despite the urgency of her situation, Angela could not help but take a moment to absorb the world around her.
Rolling fields of tall prairie grasses seemed to stretch forever, swaying softly in the summer breeze.
Wildflowers—bright bursts of yellow, purple, and blue—dotted the grassy plains, and in the distance, the faint silhouette of trees hinted at a nearby river, its banks lined with thick cottonwoods and willows.
The land was rich, the soil dark and fertile, fed by the Missouri River that snaked just beyond sight, and was full of life in every direction.
It was beautiful but vast and daunting. The sheer openness felt strange after the confinement of the wagon, as if the whole sky could swallow her up.
Overhead, the sun climbed high, casting a golden hue over everything, while a few birds wheeled and cawed in the distance, swooping low as if to remind her how very small she was in all this wild, uncharted space.
Angela had never traveled much, had never experienced all the world had to offer, and in that moment, she was wholly captivated by the journey that lay before them.
Something in the underbrush stirred, pulling Angela from her thoughts. She turned and hurried back to the camp.
When she returned, she glanced around and, seeing no one nearby, scrambled back into her hiding spot.
She settled herself as best she could and pulled her knees close, but before long, voices drifted over, and she froze.
The voices were close, just on the other side of the canvas.
She held her breath, pressing herself tighter against the barrels and crates.
“How long you reckon 'til we make the next river crossing?” one man asked, his tone weary.
“Two days, if the pace holds,” replied a deeper voice. “I just hope Whitaker knows what he’s doing. I’ve heard stories about him, but it’s my family I got with me here.”
“Oh, he knows what he’s doing, all right,” came a third voice, this one with a hint of respect. “Man’s as steady as they come.”
Angela waited, heart thudding, until their voices faded and the sounds of the wagons creaking to life resumed.
She released a shaky breath and slumped back against the barrel, feeling her pulse slowly settle.
The wagon creaked and rocked as it set off again, the familiar rhythm eventually lulling her into a light doze.
The canvas above filtered the afternoon light, warming the enclosed space and wrapping her in a cozy haze of sleep.
She drifted, surrendering to the fatigue of the journey and the fitful night’s sleep she’d had. It felt safer in the dim quiet of the wagon, with the faint rumble of wheels beneath her, like she was a small part of a larger whole, heading westward in a blur of hope and uncertainty.
She was abruptly woken by the sound of the wagon coming to a complete stop. Blinking groggily, she started to push herself up, but in the next instant, the canvas cover at the back of the wagon was flung open. She barely had time to move before sunlight poured in, momentarily blinding her.
When her vision adjusted, she found herself staring up at a tall, broad-shouldered man silhouetted against the bright afternoon sun.
His face came into focus, and Angela felt her breath hitch.
He was striking, with dark hair swept back beneath a worn hat, sharp features, and a pair of piercing blue eyes now fixed on her with a look of utter disbelief.
For a long, agonizing moment, neither of them moved. He simply stood there, staring at her as if she were some sort of apparition, his mouth slightly parted, the crease between his brows deepening with each second.
“What in the world…?” he finally managed, his voice low and rough with astonishment.