“Then why do they think—”
“Mama.” Patrick’s voice cut through, high and desperate. “Mama, Colleen fell down.”
Margaret whirled. Her six-year-old was crumpled in the snow, her small body shaking with silent sobs. Samuel stood over her, helpless, his own legs trembling.
“She’s too cold.” Tommy was already moving, scooping Colleen into his arms. “Ma, she’s ice cold.”
“The wagon’s this way.” Nate’s voice shifted, urgent now. “I’ve got blankets, food. We need to get them warm.”
Margaret hesitated. One heartbeat. Two. Her daughter was freezing. Her baby was burning with fever. Her other children were starving and exhausted and terrified. She had no choice. She’d never had a choice.
“Lead the way.”
The wagon was better than anything Margaret had expected. Sturdy, well-built, two horses that looked healthier than her children. Their coats gleaming, their bodies well-fed. She noticed. Of course she noticed.
“These ain’t poor farmer’s horses,” she said quietly, lifting Colleen into the wagon bed where Tommy had already spread blankets.
Nate’s hands tightened on the reins. “No, ma’am, they ain’t.”
“Your letter said ‘simple life, honest work, small farm needing a woman’s touch.’”
“I know what my letter said.”
“Then you lied.”
Silence. Behind them, the older children were helping the younger ones into the wagon. Loss was crying. Lucy was trying to comfort her. Patrick was arguing with Samuel about who got to sit where. Martha had climbed into Rosie’s lap and refused to move. Normal sounds, children sounds. The sounds of her family surviving one more minute, one more hour, one more day.
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