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town, and another twelve miles home again, just so she could get a dress that fit right. That privilege hadn’t been granted Mrs. Hassenplug since the early years of the marriage, in fact she suspected her husband enjoyed the time spent away from her, actually experienced greater happiness in her absence. Mrs. Hassenplug remembered very well the things she’d been required to do back then in exchange for a trip to town, so it was natural for her to assume the same quid pro quo applied to Zoe.
    Hassenplug’s wife had endured much in pursuit of male progeny. Hassenplug had forced himself on her times beyond number for just that purpose, and she had no choice but to submit, that being her duty; the cornerstone of any marriage was the transfer of property to a son. But her suspicions had been nudged when Hassenplug chose from among the orphan train offerings of 1869 a girl instead of a boy. She had seen him approach several boys, it was true, but these had panicked when he described for them his need of a strong back and willing hands to work the finest little farm in the county. They’d be city boys, his wife warned him, but he insisted on presenting himself as some kind of slave driver, and every boy had shaken his head.
    Then he’d gone to the girl, an unremarkable female to be sure, but at least she’d be able to assist his wife. Mrs. Hassenplug had thought her husband was being generous at the time, getting her someone to help out around the house. Four years later, she saw that the unremarkable female had been an investment, not a gift. It was a grievous insult. No woman who had endured as she had should have to fight against something as ubiquitous, as callow, as younger flesh. Mrs. Hassenplug had attempted to halt the course of events by protest and been slapped silly for her trouble. Now what would happen would happen. Mrs. Hassenplug hadn’t been driven to church since her wedding day, but she knew the situation was in God’s hands. No one could have greater need of His help than herself.
    The day of the trip to town dawned fair and warm. Zoe had not heard a civil word from the lips of her mother since Hassenplug announced he would take her with him in the wagon. Zoe was afraid, and already ashamed; she had encouraged the man by saying she would think about his offer, and now that he had followed through with an invitation to town that didn’t even include the presence of his wife, Zoe felt she’d stepped off a cliff, and in so doing made an enemy of the woman who’d been reasonably good to her for a long time.
    She considered reneging on the arrangement, simply staying home, but that option smacked of weakness. Only fourteen, she had a quotient of the Dugan blood that had been strong enough to survive desertion and poverty (Nettie’s blood, that was, not the craven stuff that flowed in the veins of Zoe’s true father, the coward who’d left them nothing but his name). No, she’d go to town and choose a dress, and the devil take what happened. She was careful, though, to slip a small paring knife into her sleeve before joining Hassenplug on the wagon seat.
    Mrs. Hassenplug refused to come out into the yard to witness their departure. As the wagon crept away she raged at her helplessness, her inability to change anything in her life, but before long her anger turned to tears, as it always did. Now she took up the long and bitter weeping of the irredeemable victim, knowing that by the time her husband accomplished what it was he planned, her face would be dry, set like stone with the salt of her misery.
    Surprisingly, Zoe remembered some of the landscape from her passage in the same wagon four years before, on the long drive from town with her new parents. She was now a different person, and didn’t feel at all that she was moving back into her own past. The station where she had said good-bye to her brothers would still be there, but her brothers would not. That was the saddest thought for Zoe, sadder than