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Papa had gone to the mill early that morning to settle the accounts before the wedding. He’d promised Mama he’d be home by supper, though Eden suspected Mama would send someone after him if he lost track of the hour. He had a habit of forgetting everything else once he got into his ledgers.

Tomorrow Josiah would stand beneath that arbor and marry Laurel. His limp and headaches had not frightened her off. She knew how his memory sometimes deserted him and how quickly frustration followed. She loved him anyway.

“You could stay for the wedding,” Josiah said, stretching his bad leg. “Take a later train.”

“The train west leaves at six.”

“Trains have been known to run more than once.”

“This one leaves tomorrow.”

“For Nebraska. To a man you’ve never met.”

“To a family I’ve corresponded with.”

“Not the same thing.”

“No.”

“The man might still be unconscious when you arrive.”

Eden studied the sheets snapping on Mama’s clothesline. The linen chest was full, but Mama had washed them again. Keeping busy was easier than saying goodbye.

“Emily’s telegram says Jesse woke briefly.”

“It says his condition is uncertain.”

“I know.”

Josiah rubbed a thumb along his trouser seam. “You believe the Lord is asking you to go?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to?”

Eden clasped her hands. She had asked herself the same question throughout the night.

“I want to know who I am when I’m not watching someone breathe.”

Josiah fell quiet.

She studied the callus at the base of her thumb. Those hands had changed bedsheets beneath a man too weak to rise, measured medicine, and steadied Mama when the doctor had nothing encouraging to say. Lately she scarcely knew what to do when no one called for her.

“I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Yes, you should.”

“You nearly died.”

“I remember enough.”

“I’d stay again.”

“I know.”

“Then why does leaving feel like betrayal?”

Josiah considered his answer. “You’ve taken care of us so long you’ve forgotten you can love us from somewhere else.”