The morning the wagon train moved out, the prairie looked like it had been ironed flat overnight—endless, pale gold grass bowing under a wind that never seemed to decide where it was going.

You stood beside your family’s wagon with your sleeves rolled to the elbow, one hand braced on the wooden rim as your father tightened the last strap with the methodical patience of a man who trusted rope more than promises.

Samuel Carter grunted softly. “If it holds, it holds. If it don’t, we’ll know quick enough.”

“That’s comforting,” you muttered, though there was no bite in it. Your voice was steadier than you felt.

Behind you, Eliza Carter was already in motion—checking supplies, counting tins, adjusting a bundle of herbs tucked into oilcloth like it was a child of its own. She paused only long enough to glance your way.

“You tied your hair back?” your mother asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Loose hair catches on everything that wants to take you apart out here.”

You gave a small huff of laughter, then looked out toward the line of wagons ahead. They stretched across the horizon in uneven patience—families, loners, hired hands, all stitched together by desperation and the same impossible direction: west.

Your brother Thomas rode up then, reins slack in one hand, his posture already settled into the shape of responsibility. “We’re near the middle again,” he said. “Pa says that’s safest.”

“Safest is still dying slower,” you replied.

Thomas glanced at you, a flicker of warning and affection tangled together. “Don’t start that today.”

You didn’t answer, because ahead of you someone was shouting.

Not panic yet—just urgency. The kind that always came before panic learned how to speak.

You followed the sound.

Two wagons down, a small cluster had formed. Women standing too still. Men hovering like they weren’t sure where to put their hands. And at the center of it—too small to be anything but wrong in a place like this—a bundle of blankets.

A baby.

You slowed before you even meant to.

Someone said, “She’s gone.”

Another voice, rougher: “We can’t slow the train for—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Eliza Carter said sharply from behind you, having arrived without anyone noticing her approach.

The group shifted at that tone alone.

You stepped closer.

The baby’s face was red from crying that had already worn itself thin. Tiny fists curled like they were still arguing with the world. A woman—no, what was left of one—lay covered nearby, still and already fading from being spoken about instead of seen.

The air smelled faintly of sickness and boiled cloth.

Something in your chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with recognition.

“She’s not dead yet,” one man insisted, though no one looked convinced.

Eliza crouched, checked the woman once—quick, clinical, final—and stood again without ceremony. “She is,” she said simply.

Silence dropped hard.

The baby’s crying picked up like it had heard the word and disagreed.

And then he stepped in.

You had noticed him before, though never properly. He had a habit of being where he was needed without announcing it. Dust-stained hat, worn shirt, sleeves pushed to his forearms like he expected the world to require him to roll up and fix it at any moment.

Ennis Davey.

He didn’t touch the baby right away. Just looked.

Then at you.

Then at Eliza.

“Someone needs to take her,” he said quietly.

A woman scoffed nearby. “Take her where?”

Ennis didn’t look at her. “Away from here. Now. Before the train moves again.”

That did it—movement, unease, argument trying to form teeth.

You heard your own voice before you fully chose it.

“I’ll take her.”

It wasn’t brave. It wasn’t noble. It was immediate, like something inside you had already decided and your mouth was just catching up.

Eliza looked at you sharply. “Marigold—”

“She’ll die if she’s passed around like a burden,” you said, surprising yourself with how steady it came out. “I can carry her.”

Ennis’s gaze flicked to you again—longer this time. Not judgment. Calculation.