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1 May 1894 Jessa sensed something was amiss as soon as her father pulled up in the wagon. He’d gone to Rayner for supplies. They’d run out of sugar and were low on coffee and cornmeal. Though he’d taken a batch of their usual trade goods, butter and eggs, the wagon was empty. Especially vexing to Jessa was the lack of melon seeds, the very thing he’d gone after. They’d been planning on the melons for months, had dug a channel off Sometimes Creek for water. They were already late, going for an early fall harvest, but they’d heard about a fellow over in Haskell who’d made a killing the year before. A proprietary seed and fertilizer. Mama thought it a scheme. “Where’s the seed?” Jessa asked. Papa didn’t answer as he climbed down from the buckboard. His face looked grim, and Jessa wondered if it was on account of pain. Everything he did, he did stiffly. “Bring this in to your mama,” he said, handing her a small sack of coffee. “But where’s the rest?” It irked her that he wouldn’t explain. She wasn’t a child, but a partner in this venture—or this almost venture. Just then Agnes, nine years younger than Jessa, came rushing up. “Did you bring me anything?” From his pocket, Papa pulled three pieces of orange candy. Agnes plopped them in her mouth all at once. To Jessa, he handed a single butterscotch drop, for which she had no appetite. “The melon seeds?” “Take the coffee. I’ll be in in a minute with some news.” “News, shoes, clues,” Agnes sing-songed in a candy-garbled voice. Jessa didn’t want any news. Not the way he’d said it, head down, talking to his shoes. Had he picked up a letter at the post? Was someone ill—or worse? Considering the number of very bad things he could be waiting to tell them, Jessa knew being upset over the seed was petty. Still, she had the urge to kick something. They were a few years into what the papers were saying was a nationwide drought. It’d wiped out corn across much of the Great Plains, causing droves of homesteaders to return east. Although Stonewall County had been spared the worst of the drought, the Campbells were always worried about getting enough rain for their cotton and sorghum crops. Money, and the family’s need of it, was never openly discussed, but it was always there, staring back at them in their half-empty larder and worn-out shoes. Jessa looked out over the empty field they’d spent three days grooming. The Bradford was said to have a rind so soft you could cut it with a butter knife. For a second, she could taste one. What could be so important, or terrible, that he’d come home without the seed? With the family all gathered in their small kitchen, Papa delivered his news. His hands were folded in front of him, resting on his belly, as if he were making a speech in church. “You’ll be settled with the Martins,” he said to Jessa. “The ones that got the mercantile.” “Settled?” She didn’t understand. “A mother’s helper.” “What?” she said. No such thing had ever been discussed before. It was as wild to her as if he’d come home saying, “I’ve added a wife,” or, “We’re trading the horses for elephants.” Papa explained she’d board with the Martins and come home to visit. Everything she knew about the world seemed to flip. Visit home? Home was the place you left to go visiting. What on earth had happened when Papa went to town? She was Papa’s right-hand man—he called her that, despite her sex— and had been since she’d stopped schooling four years earlier, when she’d turned thirteen. Her two younger sisters could not begin to take her place. It made no sense for her to leave. She objected in the way she could, in measured tones, as if panic weren’t overtaking her. She wasn’t quick with words like her sisters. Feelings and ideas would get stuck on the other side of her voice, no words to carry them across. Or she’d start talking and her words would fail, trail off, evaporate, everyone staring at her, waiting. Papa wasn’t in a waiting mood. He seemed uncomfortable, brushing dust that wasn’t there from his britches.