by Tess LeSue
“I assume we’re not crossing the river today,” Doc Barry said. “If it’s all right with you, I’ll send for the pastor to be with Mrs. Smith when she wakes.” The doc gave Matt a gentle pat on the arm and went back to his tent, where Georgiana lay, drugged, shattered with grief.
Matt wished he could see her. Every fiber of his being wanted to wrap himself around her and keep her safe. To stroke away her pain.
But stroking her was what had caused all this pain in the first place, he thought bleakly. Wilby’s death was on him.
He was the one who’d sent the children off to hide. And why? So he could roll around in the grass with their mother. He was the one who was ultimately responsible for Wilby falling into the river. He was light-headed with the horror of it. He had to hold on to the chuck wagon for a moment until it passed. His gaze drifted to the glowing tent. Hell. What good could he do those boys?
He wasn’t good for people. The people he loved died. Just look at his past: his mother, his father.
It was hard to breathe. The feelings were hitting him hard and fast, feelings he’d worked a lifetime to avoid.
He wasn’t like his brother. Luke took charge, made things better; Matt messed everything up. And look at today, Matt thought, feeling ill enough to vomit. Look at today. He’d been so focused on his own pleasure . . .
He’d been selfish.
And he was still being selfish. That family was suffering, and he was just standing here, obsessed with his own self. Just like always. He had the luxury of standing here, alive, blaming himself, while Wilby . . .
He felt tears swell. God, he hadn’t cried since he was a kid. Matt pressed his face into his forearm. His throat hurt fit to split, and he was on the verge of collapsing into sobs. If he felt this way about Wilby, imagine how she felt. Imagine how those kids felt.
He didn’t need to imagine. He knew. He remembered the cold sucking terror of his parents’ deaths, the black void that opened through the heart of him, the hopelessness that rushed in.
But he also remembered Luke. The great mass of his older brother at his side: the weight and steadiness of him. Luke had been like a tree, something for Matt and Tom to cling to, something to shelter them from the worst of the storm. Luke had been the one to move them on when they could barely rise from their bedrolls; Luke had been the one to plan and scout and feed them when they could barely eat. He’d been the one to remember birthdays and to keep them at what book learning he could. All Matt remembered from that time was the cold black-and-white awfulness of it: the nightmares and the ashy pit in his stomach.
He’d always assumed Luke had a quality he didn’t, that his despair had been lesser or his courage greater. Matt wiped his face on his sleeve and tried to pull himself together. But what if he’d been wrong? What if Luke had stood alone like this all those years ago, in the darkness before dawn, feeling this toxic storm of guilt and shame, searing loneliness and fear? What if he’d wept in the dark where no one could see, and then pulled himself together, rounded them up and driven them on to Oregon? Because what else could he do? He was the eldest. There was no one else to do what needed doing.
Matt stared at the glowing tent.
There was no one else to do what needed doing.
His feet were heavy as he crossed the camp to the boys’ tent. They were awake, as he’d known they would be. They sat up when he came in.
“Did you find him?”
They looked horrible. They were dark-eyed scarecrows.
Matt shook his head. “I was about to go out again. I thought you might want to come with me?”
They scrambled out of their bedrolls and had their boots on before Matt had finished speaking. In their haste, they’d each pulled on one black boot and one brown. Matt didn’t bother to correct them. What did it matter?
“Come on,” he said gruffly, settling his hands on the back of their necks as he led them to the horses. “We’ll need to pack saddlebags. We’ll be gone all day.”
* * *
• • •
ACTION WAS THE only sane response to shock and grief, Matt thought as he watched the twins thrash through the grasses by the riverside. They stopped at every clump of bushes or reeds, combing through them until they were black with mud. They called Wilby’s name until their voices were hoarse. Matt followed along after them, but by afternoon he no longer called out. He trailed them, watching over them, letting the action of searching for Wilby funnel their horror and rage and guilt. At midday he made them eat, even though they hadn’t wanted to. He tossed them the water canteen regularly. They were both pale and tense and clumsy on their horses. Grief was a hard master.
By late afternoon, they’d traveled miles and hadn’t found so much as a sign of their brother.
And they never would. Matt had resigned himself to Wilby’s fate many hours ago. He wouldn’t be able to bring his little body back to camp so his mother could have the thin relief of a Christian burial. Wilby had either been washed along the Green River, far beyond their reach, or he was caught at its bottom, tangled in the watery half-light. The thought was Matt’s undoing. Like an avalanche, the sobs took him. After a while, he’d stopped fighting and had just given into the tears, weeping as he rode. The sight of the boys searching tirelessly, helplessly, made him cry harder. He cried for them and for their mother, whose pain he couldn’t even begin to imagine. And he cried for Wilby, barely more than a baby, lost and alone. The thought of the boy out there, with no one to comfort him in death, had Matt crying until his head throbbed.
The sight of him unnerved the twins when he caught up to them at the end of the day. He’d kept back, making sure they were in sight, but far enough away so they wouldn’t see his distress. When he finally rode up to call the day off, they were standing in the low afternoon light, caked with mud, their eyes dull with the realization that the search was ending. When they saw Matt’s red eyes and wet face, they cracked.
Phin shook his head and backed away until he just about tumbled into the river. Matt was off his horse and pulling him back from the lip of the river before he could fall. He couldn’t lose another one of these children.
“So, that’s it?” Flip asked. His voice was thick with tears. “You’re giving up?”
“No!” Phin thumped Matt with his fist. It hurt but Matt let him thump. “NO! We’ll go out again tomorrow!”
“There’s no point,” Matt told him gently.
“Fuck you!” Phin launched himself at Matt, punching him hard.
Matt did the only thing he could think to do and yanked the boy into a bear hug, lifting him off the ground. Phin struggled in his arms. Matt let him struggle.
Flip started to cry. “It’s all my fault,” he said, sinking into the grass and burying his face in his hands.
Matt let him cry, much as he let his brother struggle. Eventually, Phin grew still, even though he was as rigid as a tent pole.
“What if he’s out there?” he asked Matt fiercely.
“He is out there,” Matt told him, “but not anywhere we’ll ever find him.” He lowered the boy to the ground but kept tight hold of him. “He’s dead, Phin.”
The boy glared at him. But Matt could see the shine of tears and the black gleam of despair behind the rage.
“There’s nothing more we could have done,” Matt said gently.
Flip cried harder behind them.
“It’s not your fault,” Phin growled at his brother.
“It is. I wasn’t watching him properly.” Flip was wretched with grief. He cried so hard he started to vomit.
Matt let Phin go and went to hold Flip’s head as he threw up. He pulled the boy’s hair out of the way and held him up.
“It isn’t your fault,” Phin raged at him. “It’s mine.”
Matt looked up and saw the shame at work in Phin.
“He followed me into the rus
hes.”
“It’s not your fault,” Matt told him. “Nor yours.” He stroked Flip’s hair. The kid was wringing himself inside out. “If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine. I oughtta have been watching out for you all.”
“Don’t be stupid.” The shine in Phin’s eyes had materialized into angry tears, which tumbled freely. “You can’t watch us every minute of the day.”
“Wilby was my job,” Flip whimpered. He’d stopped vomiting now and sagged back against Matt.
“It was his dumb dog’s fault,” Phin said, wiping his face, still angry. “If Woof hadn’t jumped in the water, Wilby wouldn’t have jumped in after him.”
Something inside Matt shriveled up at that. He’d been the one to give Wilby the dog.
“It weren’t your fault,” he said sternly, “and I won’t hear any more about it. You two might be big for your age and as impertinent as all get-out, but you’re still kids. And kids ain’t responsible for things like this. You let the adults take the blame for this one.” He rubbed Flip’s back. “You two got one job and one job only now, and that’s to look after your womenfolk. Your ma will be suffering like you ain’t seen suffering before.” His heart twisted at the thought. “She needs you now. And your little sister will too.”
He saw how Phin straightened. That was one raw nerve of a kid. Flip was gentler, more sensitive; Phin was brasher, more impulsive. He was more likely to run wild. Of the two of them, Matt was more worried about Phin. Flip would cry it out, but Phin would carry Wilby’s death with him like a thorn in the heart.
Maybe a mission would help him.
“Phin, I’m going to put you in charge of taking care of your mother, you hear? She’s going to need reminding to eat, for a start. Grief saps your will to live. I need you to help keep her alive until that will comes back.”
Phin nodded. He latched onto the order like it was a lifeline. His jaw set stubbornly, and the shine of tears dried up.
“And you need to look out for Susannah,” Matt told Flip. This twin’s eyes were shimmering with misery.
He stood up, pulling Flip to his feet. “It’s up to us now, boys. We need to keep this family safe until the storm passes.”
“What if it doesn’t pass?” Flip’s hand was shaking as he wiped his face.
Matt rested a hand on his shoulder and looked him dead in the eye. “It will pass. All things pass. Just when you think it hurts so much you can’t take it anymore, you find you can. And then it eases off, a little more every day, until it don’t feel so bad.” He took a shaky breath. “It will always hurt. But it won’t always hurt this bad.” He hoped that was true. “Now, clean yourself up.”
“Wilby never even got to meet Leo,” Phin said as they watched Flip wash his face and hands in the river. “He was born after they left.”
Oh hell. Matt winced. That poor woman. He’d almost forgotten about her other lost son. She never spoke of him—he guessed the fear and worry made speaking of him too sharp. Jesus. Imagine the pain she was in, lying back there in that tent, grieving her last born and in mortal fear for her firstborn.
“Come on,” he said tightly. “We’d best get back to your ma.”
“Can we take a minute to say good-bye to Wilby?” Flip asked. He was still weeping.
“Of course.” Matt joined the boys at the riverside. They watched the streaky sunset shine on the rushing waters, split into slivers of copper and gold. Matt could hear Flip sniffling. Phin picked up a stone and skipped it across the water. The water drops looked like liquid gold as they sprayed into the air.
“I’m taking one of these,” Phin said gruffly, pocketing a stone, “to remember him by.”
Mutely, Flip did the same.
Matt picked one up too, feeling its cool length fit neatly into his palm. He took one for Georgiana and one for Susannah as well. One day, when things weren’t so sharp, he’d give them the stones so they could carry a piece of Wilby’s resting place with them.
“It’s going to take us half the night to get back,” Flip sniffed as they mounted up. But they didn’t rush. They kept the horses to a walk, taking in the shimmer of the river and the beaten bronze sky, keeping watch over the fading of the day. Tomorrow would bring a new day. One without Wilby in it.
* * *
• • •
IT WAS DEEP night when they returned to camp. The sky was a great arc of stars, moonless and cloudless. The men on watch gave them sympathetic looks and took the horses from them.
“We’ll feed and water them,” Earl Colicut assured Matt. “You go to your lady.” He nodded his head toward the campfire.
Matt’s heart squeezed at the sight of Georgiana. She had Susannah cradled on her lap and a quilt over her shoulders as she stared sightlessly at the flames.
Matt led the sleepy boys toward her. She looked up at the sound of their approach. Ah hell. He hated the way hope flared in her eyes at the sight of them. Some part of her still thought they’d be bringing Wilby back to her, muddy and scratched up from his adventure . . . but alive.
Matt tasted bile as he shook his head at her. The hopeful spark fizzed out and her face crumpled. She seemed to collapse in on herself, her cries hoarse and hopeless.
Matt gave the boys a nudge. They looked up at him.
“Go to her,” he told them in a low voice.
They did as he asked, rushing over, even though the sight of their mother’s pain was clearly distressing for them. He watched as they huddled close, awkwardly putting their arms around her.
Phin looked over at Matt and gestured him closer. “You too,” he mouthed.
Matt shook his head. It wasn’t his place.
Phin glared at him.
He shook his head again. He felt agonizingly unsure. What if she didn’t want him there? He didn’t want to intrude.
Phin broke free and stomped back to Matt. He was looking mutinous. “You said she needs us,” he hissed, “and that means you too.” He grabbed Matt’s sleeve and yanked him along.
“I don’t want to get in the way.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
When they reached Georgiana, she fixed Matt with a suffering gaze. There was such misery in her eyes. But also something else. A plea. He didn’t know what she wanted, but she was mutely begging him for something. Something he wasn’t sure he could give. He dropped to his knees beside her and clumsily put his arms around her and Flip. He felt Phin’s arms lock around him, pressing him closer to Georgiana. Georgiana dropped her head and pressed her face into Matt’s neck. He felt her shudder as she broke into earnest sobs. That woke Susannah, who whimpered and looked up from the center of the hug.
“It’s all right, Sook,” Flip said, his hand burrowing down to pat her dark curls, “we’re here.”
Matt felt their bodies lean into him. He braced, taking their weight. Their tight knot shuddered with Georgiana’s weeping. He took the shock of it. Because there was no one else to do what needed doing. And also because tonight, in the welter of grief, there was nowhere else he could imagine being. This was where he belonged. He lowered his head, resting his cheek against Georgiana’s curls, murmuring senseless sounds of comfort.
29
THEY HAD A funeral, even though there was no body to bury. Matt made the coffin himself, and they put Wilby’s wooden sword in it. Georgiana had intended to put his quilt in there too but panicked at the last moment and took it out. She slept with it afterward, burrowing her face in the fabric to extract the last lingering scent of her baby. When she found his scent, she would weep. When she didn’t, she wept even harder.
They held the funeral at sunup on their last day at the campsite. The grave was close to the river, in view of the Mormon Ferry, and people came from Josiah Sampson’s train as well as from Matt’s to watch them bury the empty coffin. Even the whores gathered at the back of the group, crying. Most of them knew what it was li
ke to lose a child, and they stood in a tight knot, comforting one another as the tiny coffin was lowered into the earth.
The funeral was the one time Georgiana didn’t cry. She was numb with the horror of it. Her mind kept snagging on awful thoughts. Like the fact that the coffin was empty, like the fact that she would never know where her baby was laid to rest, like the fact that he was all alone out there, at the mercy of the elements. He was exposed to the heat and the cold. Her baby was all alone. The thoughts made her limbs weak. Her stomach was hot and sour, and her head felt like it was caught in a vise. This couldn’t be happening.
But it was. The pastor said his words. Georgiana couldn’t focus on what he said; for all she knew, he might have been speaking a foreign tongue. All she heard was the scratchy quality of his voice and the sound of people sniffling behind her.
The morning seethed with the promise of coming heat; the river rushed on, full of storm water heading to the sea; and the dirt was warm and loose in her hand, making a dry patter on the coffin as she dropped it into the grave. Earth to earth . . .
But he wasn’t in there. He might not be in earth at all. He might be in water.
She clenched her jaw to stop the scream that was building. She was a Fairchild Bee, and Fairchild Bees didn’t scream in public. Not even when the rasp of a shovel signaled the filling in of her baby’s grave, not even when the earth was patted down and a wooden cross was spiked into the fresh earth. Not even when she saw his name burned into the cross: William Bee Blunt. She’d given up all pretense of the name Smith—no one had believed it anyway.
Oh God. She couldn’t do this. She felt her knees shake. She was going to fall.
But she didn’t fall, because Matt was there to hold her up. And he kept holding her up, all through those long days and weeks to Fort Hall.
There was no more talk of weddings. There was no more kissing. There was just the long trail and the beating sun of August. The day of the funeral, Matt had taken the reins of Georgiana’s lead wagon, and he didn’t let them go. He surrendered the scouting to his employees and stayed by her side. Georgiana sat next to him on the bench, Susannah close beside her, while the twins flanked the wagon on their horses. Wilby’s nest behind the wagon seat was painfully empty, but none of them could bear to move the blankets, or the slate and chalk, or the small toys Wilby had left behind.
