Read Under a Painted Sky for Free Online Page A

strands, then kicks dirt back over it. I haul a rock and place it on top for good measure.
    Slowly, we part the willow curtain. I follow Annamae back onto the deserted trail, feeling naked despite all my layers. The morning rays begin to paint the landscape with pastels. Yesterday morning, the sight would have filled me with wonder. Now, my gut chokes with sand and all I see before me is a road with no end.

6

    â€œWALK STRAIGHTA. NOT YOU’S BACK, YOU’S curves,” says Annamae.
    I march in the straightest line I can manage, trying to keep the pendulum from swinging, though I don’t have much to swing. Still, even the slightest tick-tock could give me away.
    â€œStrut more, like the pigeons do. Feet out, looser in the knees. Keep you’s head down. Like a pigeon hunting a potata bug.”
    I spend the next few hours perfecting my gait, and by the time I lose my shadow, it almost feels natural. The ferry starts back up at nine, which means we might see Argonauts by this afternoon, and pioneers and their wagons after that. For now, it’s just us and the prairie dogs.
    I remove my hat and swab my face for the dozenth time. March mornings are always nippy, but wearing enough clothes for four people might kill me before the law does. I shed a few layers, then collapse on the grass underneath the shadiest tree.
    Annamae strips off her coat. From her saddlebag, she produces a brick of cheese and a hunk of bacon, though she returns the bacon to the bag. “We’ll save this for tomorrow’s breakfast. Nothing says good morning like a streaky slab of po’ man’s steak.”
    â€œIsn’t this breakfast?”
    â€œNope. It’s closer to noon.” She shaves off a slice from the cheese, says a quick prayer, then hands the morsel to me. I swallow it in one bite and wait for more.
    â€œThat’s it for now,” she says. “We gotta make it last.”
    My stomach grumbles in protest. I sigh and ball a fist into it. On any other day, I’d be having two eggs and rice porridge—and there’d be custard tarts on special occasions. My eyes begin to blur when I remember the last thing Father gave me was a plate of miniature suns. I shove that thought away. Annamae rolls out the bubbles in the waxy paper covering the cheese.
    â€œSo how’d you and Isaac get split up?” I ask.
    â€œWe were all sold off from Frogg Farm. Tommy and I went to the Yorkshires, and I don’t know where Isaac went. He got picked up quick, he being strong enough to carry Tommy and me in each arm.” She flashes me a grin. Her teeth are straight as a picket fence on top but crooked on the bottom.
    â€œWhy’d Isaac want to go west? Why not try a free state, or—”
    â€œFree states don’t make you free.” She sniffs. “If the law catches you, they return you to you’s owner. Not much law in this direction and the pioneers got better things to do than trouble over runaways.”
    May the pioneers have better things to do than trouble over me, too. I force my aching feet back onto the empty trail after Annamae.
    If I’m going to catch up with Mr. Trask, Father’s friend who has Mother’s bracelet, I will need a speedier mode of transport than these legs. We could use Yorkshire’s rings to buy a horse, assuming we survive long enough to make it to the next trading post. But what if they don’t sell horses? Without a horse, not only will I never catch Mr. Trask, I’ll be a lame fox on hunting day.
    I up my pace. Negative thoughts pour gravel in your shoes and make your step unsteady. Instead, I think back to the last time I saw the energetic thirty-year-old grocer from New York. Father’s best friend and a fellow musician, Mr. Trask showed up out of the blue last month. He’d come all the way from New York City. Father said to him, “Don’t tell me you’re here to reclaim your tuning fork, because I’ve