Chapter Seven — The Morning After

  The storm had gone in the night like some restless beast seeking another stretch of unlucky earth. Dawn broke clear, a soft pink bruising along the edges of the prairie. Mist clung low over the grass, steam rising from the wet earth in thin, curling threads that caught the newborn sunlight like pale smoke.

  Miles woke stiff and cold beneath the wagon, every joint aching as though the storm had poured stones into his bones. The ground still sucked at his boots with every movement, the whole camp sunk ankle-deep into yesterday’s chaos.

  But it was quiet.

  Blessedly, impossibly quiet.

  The kind of silence the prairie kept after roaring itself empty.

  Miles pushed himself upright—and winced sharply as a blade of pain shot along his shoulder, down his back, and across the binding at his ribs. He caught his breath fast, glancing around to see if anyone had noticed.

  They hadn’t. Most were already at work.

  Captain Finch strode through the camp like a man counting his own pulse.

  “All families—make ready! Tools out! We’ve got spokes to dry, hubs to tighten, and breakfast to salvage!”

  Children trotted behind their parents, still rubbing sleep from their eyes. Men carried wagons jacks, wedges, pry poles, and lengths of rope. Women checked damaged provisions with grim efficiency, their hands already sorting what could be saved from what must be thrown.

  The camp was still damp, but a hint of sunlight warmed the ridge. The smell of wet earth, soaked canvas, and muddy livestock hung heavy in the air.

  But the hardest part of the storm was over.

  Repairing the Wagons

  Miles limped toward Jonah, who was knee-deep in the work of pulling a wheel from the Halperns’ wagon. The spokes were swollen, tight in the mortises, the iron tire still slick with water.

  “Morning,” Jonah said, voice roughened from shouting over the storm. “Still alive?”

  “Barely,” Miles muttered.

  Jonah grinned. “That’s the trail for you.”

  He wedged a chisel between two felloes and hammered gently. “Grab the pry bar, will you? Need leverage on this hub.”

  Miles reached for it—pain stinging up his arm again. He swallowed it down and lifted anyway, bracing the bar under the wheel frame. Jonah leaned his weight onto the chisel.

  “Push on three. One—two—three!”

  They pushed.

  The wheel popped free with a wet crack. Miles almost fell with it, catching himself with his good arm.

  Jonah frowned. “You alright there? You’re moving’ stiff.”

  “Just sore,” Miles said, too quickly.

  Jonah didn’t look convinced.

  The Food Triage

  Nearby, Esther worked with two other women salvaging what food they could. A ruined barrel of beans was spread across a canvas sheet, and Miles heard Esther muttering in Swedish under her breath—likely curses, though she delivered them with motherly warmth.

  A half-sack of flour had turned into something between paste and glue. Jonah’s younger sister’s family scraped what they could from the edges, trying to dry thin flakes of it on a plank in the early sun.

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  Salted pork hung on a line between two wagon tongues, drying slowly; the rest would be cooked at noon so the meat didn’t spoil.

  A few families mourned lost items. A missing hammer. A drowned Bible. A child’s wooden horse, sucked into the mud.

  On the trail, small losses became heavy burdens.

  Work, Sweat, and the First Hint of Heat

  By mid-morning, the sun baked away the last of the storm’s chill. Steam rose from the ground like the prairie itself exhaled. Miles shed his outer shirt, working in the thinner one beneath.

  Which… was a mistake.

  The wet binding underneath tugged painfully with every movement, the fabric shrinking and tightening after being soaked through. Each pull of a rope, each lift of a spoke, each shove of a wagon jack sent bolts of pain across his ribs.

  Jonah noticed.

  He always noticed.

  “You’re holding your arm funny,” Jonah said, dropping a handful of wedges into a bucket. “Did the storm knock you around worse than you said?”

  “Just sore,” Miles repeated.

  Jonah stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “Let me take a look.”

  Miles froze.

  “No,” he said, too sharply. “I’m fine.”

  Jonah raised a brow. “Don’t be a mule about it. A shoulder strain becomes a torn muscle real quick. C’mon.”

  Before Miles could protest, Jonah reached for the collar of Miles’s shirt.

  Miles jerked back instinctively. “Hey—!”

  Jonah stopped, hands up, startled. “I’m not gonna hurt you. Just checking.”

  Miles swallowed. His heart pounded loud enough to drown the sounds of camp.

  “Really,” he forced out. “It’s nothing. Just worked too hard yesterday.”

  Jonah frowned, studying him.

  Then, without warning, Jonah stepped behind him and reached for Miles’s shoulder blade.

  Miles tensed. Too much. Too sharp.

  Jonah felt the rigidity instantly. “You’re wound tight as iron.” He placed both hands on Miles’s shoulders to check alignment.

  Miles’s breath hitched—panic rising as Jonah’s thumbs pressed dangerously close to the binding beneath the shirt.

  “Easy,” Jonah murmured. “You don’t have to—”

  Miles flinched again. “Just leave it!”

  Jonah went still.

  Not offended. Concerned.

  “Miles…” Jonah said quietly. “If something’s wrong—”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” Miles snapped, more defensively than he meant.

  He took two steps back. Then three. Putting distance between them like it was the only thing keeping him from unraveling outright.

  Jonah’s expression shifted—hurt there for a flicker, but covered fast.

  “Alright,” he said softly. “I won’t push.”

  The space between them felt like something fragile that had just cracked.

  Miles hated that. But hated the danger more.

  Finch Breaks the Tension

  Captain Finch’s voice boomed across the camp, snapping both boys out of the moment.

  “You two! If you’re done courting, grab those dry spokes and start resetting that wheel!”

  Miles turned scarlet. Jonah nearly choked on his own breath.

  “We’re not—!” Miles sputtered.

  Finch snorted. “Save it. Only thing worse than trail repairs is listening to two pups dance around their pride. Get moving.”

  Jonah gave Miles a sheepish half-smile.

  Miles managed the smallest, reluctant one in return.

  They got moving.

  A Quiet Moment Among the Wagons

  Later, as they fitted the wheel back onto the hub, Jonah worked in silence. Miles kept his eyes on the spokes, each movement deliberate to hide the shaking in his hands.

  Finally Jonah said, without looking up:

  “If you ever need help… you can tell me. I don’t ask what ain’t mine to know.”

  Miles hesitated.

  “I know,” he said quietly.

  Jonah nodded once. “Good.”

  They worked until the wheel sat snug and true again. Finch inspected it, grunted approval, and moved on to the next wagon.

  As Jonah packed away tools, he brushed past Miles and offered a gentle pat to the uninjured shoulder.

  “Try not to blow away next storm,” he said softly.

  Miles tried to laugh.

  But a new fear curled in his chest—one different from discovery. One far more dangerous.

  He was starting to trust Jonah.

  Maybe too much.