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braid down her back. Raising her head, she flashed a big smile to reassure Dalton Tucker.
    “No?” Dalton asked, enthralled by Emma. She was about two and a half, as fair as Sage had been dark, and James wondered whether he still missed his granddaughter. Whether he still remembered her . . .
    “Don’t worry about a thing,” Louisa said, her voice full of love, throwing a hard look at James. “We’re all here. Emma’s fine, you’re fine, we’re all fine.”
    “Could’ve been a disaster,” Dalton said, stroking Emma’s blond head. “The goddamn house could have burned down. This little one . . .”
    James walked away. He had ten thousand head of cattle on the spring range, thirsty and in need of water. Why wait till tomorrow? Tonight he was going to ride back, start burning irrigation ditches. He liked Emma, but right now he didn’t want to watch his father pouring attention on someone else’s kid. The Tuckers had had two of their own, once upon a time. . . .
    Maybe he could go out and catch some rain in areas he hadn’t gotten to yet. Ready new ditches, burn away the summer’s growth of briars and sagebrush to clear the way. Dig out more rocks, roll away bigger boulders, watch for the rattlesnakes that multiplied in drought summers. His irrigation shovel was sharp, and he hoped he’d hear the rattle before he felt the strike.
    Ranchers lived in a perpetual state of hope. They hoped for rain during dust season, dry spells after deluges. They hoped for smart horses that didn’t need much spurring, good stock dogs to heel the cows. James knew something he hoped most men would never find out: Men who lost their sons didn’t have much left in the way of hope. Hope to James was scarcer than this season’s rain. But when the skies finally opened up, damned if he wouldn’t be prepared. Then he thought of what his father had said about blizzards coming, and shook his head.
    Maybe Daisy had known what she was doing, leaving. Wyoming was one goddamned hard place to try to live.

Chapter Four
    T he train jolted along the tracks, making Sage feel as if she was going to throw up again. It took all her concentration not to. Staring at Ben helped. Ben loved her, and they were going to be together forever. He had said so, and he kept saying so. Sage loved Ben so much. She could hardly believe he was her boyfriend. So many girls at school liked him, but it was Sage he wanted to be with.
    Their hands were touching. Well, their fingers, actually. The tips of their index fingers. Ben was asleep, lying in his bedroll on the hard wood floor, facing Sage. The boxcar was dark and cold. It wasn’t heated, and last night the temperature had been so low they could see their breath. Sage stared at their fingertips, as if she could actually see the connection she had with Ben, keep it as solid as it was in that moment, preserve it forever.
    “Oh!” The word just popped out of her mouth as a terrible wave of nausea went through her.
    “Huh?” Ben asked, waking right up. He rubbed his eyes with one fist, just like a very small boy. “What’s wrong—you sick again?”
    Sage nodded miserably.
    Ben linked his fingers with hers, his eyes filled with sympathy. Sage knew he was concerned about her, but there were so many other things to be worried about, too: their mothers, missing school, having to ration their water, being cold, being railroad stowaways.
    “If only the train wasn’t so bouncy,” she said.
    “It’s pretty weird without windows,” he said. “Even I feel kind of sick.”
    “Bet you wish you were safe and warm at home,” she said, afraid he’d say yes.
    “Coming was my idea,” he reminded her.
    Sage wanted to smile, but she felt too sick. Ben amazed her. When she had tried to say good-bye to him, he had refused to let her go alone. She had never thought she was very pretty, wonderful, the kind of girl someone would want to be with. Her mother always praised her, told her to be confident, but no matter how