“Children,” she said without looking back, “stay in the wagon.”
The prairie wind pushed at her skirt.
Behind her, the battered wagon creaked.
Inside it sat everything left of the Hart family.
Twelve-year-old Samuel stood nearest the opening, trying very hard to look like a man and failing only because fear still lived openly in his brown eyes. Ruth, eleven, had one arm around ten-year-old Clara. Benjamin and Eli pressed shoulder to shoulder behind them. Maggie and Grace had gone silent. Five-year-old Henry clutched the wagon bow with both hands.
And beneath an old blanket lay four-year-old Oliver.
His blond curls were damp with fever.
His lips were dry.
Continue on the next page:
