Eliza, Henry, Polly, Ma and Papa Frederick. Caroline said their names to herself over and over again as she emptied the cabin into the wagon. And there would be Eliza’s new little boy. Lansford Newcomb Ingalls. To see them again in this world would be . . . what? Caroline knew no word to encompass it.
Then shouldn’t the thought of their faces when the wagon arrived back in Pepin be enough to spur a smile? she asked herself once more. Caroline had a letter already written to drop at the post office on their way out, but there was every possibility that they themselves would arrive in Wisconsin before news reached the family. Imagine knocking on Polly’s door, with Carrie in her arms, and asking to borrow a jar of pickles as though no more than a day had passed. Imagine Polly Quiner, speechless. That scene raised one corner of her mouth. It was all the joy Caroline could summon.
Think of the pantry, she told herself as she crouched before the little provisions cabinet to pack a crate with small bags of flour, cornmeal, coffee, and sugar. Think of cooking on a stove again, with an oven and enough room to boil and fry and bake all at once. Think of cooking and eating in one room, and sleeping in another. All of it made her want to be happy. None of it did.
“It all fit on the way in,” Charles said when she handed the crate up over the tailgate. “Seems like it ought to all fit on the way out.” He stood stooping with the crate in his hands, surveying the inside of the wagon.
“There’s plenty of space, here,” she said, patting the empty boards at the rear corner—the same place the crate had just vacated.
Charles shook his head. “Saving that for your rocking chair,” he said.
Oh, how she wanted to smile just then.
Caroline turned numbly from the wagon and there was her kitchen garden. She had neglected to water this morning. Though the plants were not truly wilting yet, she could see they were beginning to suffer. The leaves had a soft look about them, almost like cloth. A few more hours and they would be slumped, the thin rib down each center pliable as a hair. She went to the well and filled one pail, then another. There was no time for it, no sense in it. It was almost cruel. Tomorrow they would wilt again, and there would be no respite.
Caroline could not talk herself out of it. Tenderly she watered the tomatoes, sweet potatoes, and carrots without risking a glance toward the wagon or the cabin. If Charles or the children asked, she would answer simply that the plants needed water. She did not need them to understand any more than that. Halfway through the cabbages she paused to look back over the ground she had covered. Already the jagged edges of the tomato leaves were tilting gratefully upward again. Caroline knew then that she could not abandon these plants to the mercy of the sun and the jackrabbits. Not after she had carried the seeds all the way from Wisconsin.
She moved more quickly through the beans, cucumbers, peas, turnips, and onions, more conscious now of both the time she had used and the time she still needed to accomplish her task. Then she went around back of the cabin, where the flat she had used to start the sweet potatoes stood propped against the chimney. Caroline counted the square partitions along two edges, multiplied, and divided. Room for only four plants from each row. By the numbers, it was not worth the effort. And her rocker was already straining the capacity of the wagon box. She dared not ask Charles to make room for one more thing. Caroline picked up the trowel, undeterred.
Hurrying around the corner of the house, she met Charles on his way to the stable. He carried a small coil of rope. If he took notice of the garden implements in her hands, he gave no indication. Perhaps he thought she was carrying them to the wagon, to pack. “If you don’t object, I’d like to take the cow and calf over to the Scotts’ claim,” he said. “The mustangs will outpace the calf if we try to bring the cattle along. Maybe the cow, too.” He slapped the rope against his thigh and said with a faint note of petulance, “Even if they could keep up we can’t afford feed for all of them.”
Caroline nodded. It was fitting, after all the Scotts had done for them. “That would be a fine thing, Charles. You’ll give Mrs. Scott my thanks?” she asked. “For all her kindness. She has been . . . ,” Caroline’s lips tightened, tugged by a pang of loyalty to her blood kin. Yet it was true. Though the threads were of different fibers, her tie to Mrs. Scott was as firm as the knots that joined her to Eliza, and to Polly. However true, it was more than she could ask Charles to relay. “We’ll always be beholden to them, cow or no cow,” she finished.
“I’ll thank her as best I can,” Charles promised. “I want to offer Edwards the plow,” he added. “I can’t figure any way to pack it. The plow we left in Pepin ought to be there in the barn yet, unless Gustafson made off with it.”
“Yes,” Caroline said. “I would be proud for Mr. Edwards to have the plow. He’ll want to pay you,” she supposed.
“He will, but I won’t let him.” The challenge of compelling Edwards to accept such a gift seemed to buoy him so that he came within a fraction of smiling. “Can you be ready when I get back—say an hour or so?”
“I think so. Yes.”
That satisfied him. Caroline waited while he went into the stable. He came out leading the cow by her long twisting horns. The calf followed, untethered.
“An hour, then,” he confirmed. He grimaced as if drawing a fine distinction. “Probably a little more. Scott’s a talker.”
“An hour,” Caroline repeated. He made no move to leave. His eyes went over and over her face. Seeking something? A flush crept up her neck. Did he guess what she intended to do with the flat and trowel after all? Suddenly he ducked forward and kissed her cheek, then strode off to the east, the calf trotting behind.