And stealing a horse? It made no sense.
“Where is he?” she asked, her voice unsteady.
“In our wagon. My Emma’s, uh, laying him out. I expect you’ll want to see him.”
“Not yet. I have to tell the... His daughters.”
“Ruthie’s over visiting with the Langley girl,” Sam volunteered. “The two older ones are down wading in the creek.”
She nodded. Dead. Mathias was dead. Dear God, what would they do now?
“I’ll tell ’em about their pa if you want, Jenna.”
Jenna fought waves of blackness at the edge of her vision. “No. I’ll tell them, Sam. Just...just give me a minute.”
Ten minutes passed before she could stand and make her way to the Lincolns’ camp. She hesitated before the large canvas-covered wagon and clenched her jaw so hard her teeth ached. She couldn’t look at him. Then she resolutely mounted the step, drew back the curtain and stepped inside.
Round-faced Emma Lincoln rose and without a word laid her freckled hand on Jenna’s arm. The older woman tipped her head to indicate the still form stretched out on the bedroll, and Jenna forced herself to look.
She hadn’t remembered Mathias being so tall. Or so pale. In death his features had relaxed from the perpetual scowl he had worn; now he looked almost peaceful. She scanned his body for signs of blood but saw no stains. At her questioning look, Emma took her hand.
“The bullet entered his temple, Jenna. Killed him instantly. I cleaned up the... I cleaned him up.”
“Thank God,” Jenna murmured. Oh, yes, thank You, God. There would be no messy remains for his daughters to see. An unnatural feeling of calm flowed over her, along with an inexplicable sense of...what? Relief? Dear God, how could she feel this, as if a huge weight had suddenly lifted from her shoulders? It made no sense.
Or maybe it did. Mathias had not been pleased with her of late. Maybe he had never been pleased with her.
She drew in several deep breaths before she risked speaking. “Emma, thank you for doing this for Mathias. I must find the girls and tell... They will want to see their father.”
“Sam says if it’s all right with you, they’ll bury your husband at dawn, before we pull out. And tonight Sam and I will sleep under our wagon.”
Jenna nodded and climbed down from the wagon to do what she must. She’d gone only a few yards when Ruthie danced up. “What’s wrong, Jenna? You look all white and funny.”
She knelt before her stepdaughter and struggled to compose herself. “Ruthie, I want you to find your sisters. I have something important to tell you all.”
* * *
“Dead?” Tess screeched. “What do you mean Papa is dead?”
Eleven-year-old Mary Grace began to sob.
“I mean...” Jenna began. She glimpsed Ruthie’s stricken face and the words froze on her tongue. She swallowed hard and knelt before them.
“Your father has been killed. Accidentally shot by...well, it doesn’t matter who.”
Tess swayed forward and Jenna reached up to support her. Mary Grace wrapped her thin arms around her middle, but Ruthie just stared at her with horrified blue eyes.
“You...” Jenna’s voice broke. “You girls can see him if you wish. He’s laid out in the Lincolns’ wagon.”
“I don’t want to see him,” Mary Grace sobbed.
Jenna folded her into her arms. “You might want to, honey. You will want to have seen him after we leave in the morning.” She pressed her lips shut and walked them over to the wagon, where she stood with them beside their father’s body in the fading light.
“Papa don’t look dead,” Ruthie said after a time.
“Doesn’t,” Tess snapped.
“Well, he do—doesn’t. He looks like he’s sleeping.”
Jenna patted Ruthie’s thin shoulder. “Let’s remember him that way, as if he is just...asleep.”
At her side, Mary Grace jerked. “How come there’s no blood or anything?”
Jenna drew in an unsteady breath. “Well, Mrs. Lincoln said the...the bullet hit his temple, so there wasn’t very much bl—” Her voice choked off. What could she say to them?
“Come on,” Tess said, her voice tight. “Let’s go back to camp.” Without waiting for Jenna, she herded her younger sisters outside and started across the compound.
Dear God in heaven, what should she do? The girls had resented her from the moment she had married their father, and now she was solely responsible for them. By the time they reached Oregon they would hate her.
A cold chill snaked into her belly. And they would hate her baby.
The following morning, Sam Lincoln and four other men dug a grave and laid Mathias to rest. Jenna watched them, her hands curved around Ruthie’s narrow shoulders, while Mary Grace and Tess looked on in stony silence.
Reverend Fredericks read some verses from the Bible, something about there being a time for everything under the sun. Then clods of earth thudded onto the blanket-wrapped corpse of her husband. It was an awful sound, terrible and final. Jenna clamped her jaw shut and pressed her palms over Ruthie’s ears.
Finally the last shovelful of fresh earth was heaped onto the mound and her fellow travelers drifted back to their wagons. Ruthie stepped forward and laid a ragged handful of scarlet Indian paintbrush on her father’s grave. Jenna’s heart lurched as if cracking into two jagged pieces.
“Come, girls,” she managed. “We must pack up our things.”
Ruthie turned her face into Jenna’s blue homespun skirt. “I don’t want to leave Papa here all alone.”
Tess leveled a venomous look at her sister. “Then you’re nothing but a big baby.”
Jenna fought an urge to sharply reprimand the girl, but concentrated on wrapping her hands around Ruthie’s quivering frame. She had never disciplined Mathias’s daughters, and besides, what good would it do now?
“Tess.” She addressed the girl over Ruthie’s blond curls. “That is unkind. Your sister, all of us, are hurting. You know how hard it is to leave your father here.”
Tess bowed her head. “Sorry, Ruthie. You’re not a baby, I guess. Come on, Mary Grace.” The two older girls walked off, leaving Jenna standing by the grave with her youngest stepdaughter.
She stared at the wildflowers, wishing she had thought to gather some as well, but she’d been so busy frying the breakfast bacon and rolling up the bedding inside the wagon
