Nate was quiet. Then slowly he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bundle wrapped in cloth. He opened it to reveal bread, cheese, dried meat. “For the children,” he said. “It ain’t much, but it’ll hold them till we get home.”
“Home?” The word tasted strange on Margaret’s tongue. “Is that what this is?”
“It could be if you want it to be.”
Margaret looked at the food in his hands, looked at her children in the wagon behind her, hungry, cold, scared, but alive. All nine of them still alive. She thought about Daniel, who’d died in a mine collapse trying to earn enough to keep them fed. Thought about the farm they’d lost, the debts they couldn’t pay, the creditors who’d taken everything but the clothes on their backs. She thought about the letter she’d written 3 months ago, desperate and ashamed, answering a stranger’s advertisement because she had no other choice.
“Mrs. Sullivan,” she took the food. “My children eat first, then we talk.”
The ride to the ranch took nearly 2 hours. Margaret sat in the wagon bed with her children, distributing the food in careful portions. A bite of bread for Loss. A piece of cheese for Lucy. Dried meat for the older ones who could chew it. She saved nothing for herself.
“Ma, you got to eat, too.”
Tommy pressed a piece of bread into her hand. “I’m fine.”
“You ain’t eaten since yesterday.”
“I said I’m fine, Thomas.”
“Mama.” Bridget’s voice was barely a whisper. “Mama, I’m cold.”
Margaret pulled the blankets tighter around her youngest, feeling the heat radiating from Bridget’s small body. Too hot. Too dry. The fever was getting worse.
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