Chapter Eight — The River Crossing

  Two days after the storm, the prairie unrolled into a long ribbon of shimmering grass, and the wagon train reached the river.

  It announced itself first by sound — a distant roar, low and constant, like wind trapped in a canyon. Then by smell — crisp, cold, mineral-rich water drifting on the breeze.

  Then, finally, by sight.

  The river slashed across the land in a broad, fast?moving band. Spring runoff had swollen it wide, churning brown under the morning sun. Logs tumbled through the current in violent spirals. Whitewater foamed against boulders near the far bank.

  Miles’s stomach tightened.

  Finch reined in his horse and surveyed the rushing mess with the grim patience of a man who’d seen worse…and knew worse might still come.

  “Wainwright River,” he called out. “Fast this time o’ year. We cross today.”

  A murmur rippled through the company. Mothers pulled children close. Men exchanged looks. Jonah muttered a curse under his breath.

  Miles swallowed. “That current looks… angry.”

  “That’s its polite mood,” Jonah said. “You should see it in flood.”

  “Isn’t this flood?”

  Jonah gave him a crooked smile. “This is mildly disagreeable.”

  Miles couldn’t tell if that was supposed to be comforting.

  Preparing the Wagons

  Finch barked orders like he was conducting an orchestra.

  “Unload heavy cargo first! Tie down every loose thing! Remove tailgates — water’ll rip them clean off if we don’t!”

  Men waded through the mud to lighten the wagons, rolling barrels and crates onto the bank. Women wrapped biscuits and dried fruit in cloth for a cold lunch. Children gathered buckets and tin mugs.

  The oxen snorted at the sight of the water. Miles couldn’t blame them.

  Jonah handed Miles a coil of rope. “Start lashing the trunks. Tight. If you think it’s tight enough, go back and tighten again.”

  Miles knelt beside the wagons, hands working knots he’d learned only days ago but now tied with practiced speed. The repetition steadied him — knot, pull, loop, cinch.

  He was halfway through securing Esther’s wagon when her son peeked out from under the canvas.

  “Are we gonna drown?” he asked in a whisper.

  Miles smiled gently. “Not if we work hard and pay attention.”

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  The boy nodded solemnly, clutching his armless rag doll like a talisman.

  The Crossing Begins

  The first wagon rolled into the river with two of Finch’s men guiding it. The oxen braced, hooves slipping on slick rocks before finding their purchase. Water surged up their flanks, swirling around the wheels. The men shouted corrections over the roar.

  “Left! LEFT!”

  “Hold steady!”

  “Mind the drop!”

  The wagon lurched, dipped dangerously, then righted itself. Cheers rose from the bank as it climbed onto the far shore.

  Miles exhaled a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

  “Our turn soon,” Jonah murmured beside him.

  Miles nodded.

  He wasn’t afraid of water — but he was afraid of anything that might tear at his chest binding, or drag at his clothes, or force him into a moment where he couldn’t hide what he was.

  And the river had a way of pulling secrets loose.

  Into the Water

  When their wagon rolled forward, Miles took his place beside the oxen with Jonah on the other side. The water dimpled and swirled around their boots even before they stepped off the bank.

  “Keep them straight,” Jonah said. “Current will try to turn ’em sideways. If that happens, we lose everything.”

  Miles nodded tightly. The cold hit first — water up to his shins, then his knees — numbing, shocking. The current tugged hard enough to nearly steal his balance.

  He tightened his grip on the yoke.

  The water climbed higher.

  Mid?thigh.

  Hip?deep.

  The oxen bellowed and leaned into the current, straining against the wagon’s weight. Mud swirled in clouds around their legs. The wagon tilted, dropping its right wheel into a deeper pocket.

  “Jonah!” Miles gasped.

  “I see it — hold steady!”

  Another push. Another surge. The river growled, whitecaps buffeting the wagon like furious hands.

  A log slammed into the downstream side of the chassis. The entire wagon shuddered.

  “MILES — WATCH IT!”

  Miles braced himself—

  Too late.

  The rolling log struck his side and knocked him hard against the yoke. His shoulder screamed. His ribs compressed painfully beneath the binding. His breath burst out in a gasp.

  He almost went under.

  Jonah lunged across the yoke and grabbed the back of Miles’s shirt, hauling him upright.

  “Don’t you fall! Don’t you dare fall!”

  Miles clung to the slick wood, fighting the dizzying tug of the river.

  His shirt clung to him like a second skin — wet, heavy, unmistakably outlining the binding beneath.

  Jonah’s eyes flicked downward.

  Miles’s blood turned to ice.

  He yanked his shirt free of Jonah’s grip and turned away, forcing his voice steady. “I’m fine. Keep moving.”

  Jonah didn’t argue — but the question was there, unspoken, in the sharpness of his stare.

  The wagon lurched again, forcing them both to push against the current with new urgency. Miles felt the water claw at his legs, felt the wheels grind over hidden rocks, felt the oxen strain and groan.

  He pushed through the pain.

  Through the fear.

  Through the tightening of fabric around his ribs.

  “Almost!” Jonah shouted over the roar.

  Then the river shallowed.

  Then the wheels found sand instead of stone.

  Then the wagon climbed the far bank, dripping water and shaking like a wet dog.

  They were across.

  Miles stumbled up the bank and collapsed to his knees, chest heaving painfully.

  Jonah crouched beside him. “You hurt bad?”

  “No,” Miles said quickly. “Just winded.”

  Jonah didn’t believe him. Anyone could see that.

  But he didn’t reach for Miles again — not this time. He simply nodded once, eyes thoughtful, jaw tight.

  “Come on,” he said quietly. “Let’s help the next wagon.”

  Miles stood, shaky but determined.

  He wasn’t sure if he’d earned Jonah’s trust…

  …or his suspicion.

  Maybe both.