Epona caught up quickly, her hooves rumbling across the earth. Emerson had to raise his voice to be heard over our flight. "I thought you didn't handle arms!"
"That's hardly what I did," I called back.
"Now who's quibbling? Do you know what they do with horse thieves?"
"I have no idea!" I laughed, casting an irrepressible smile in his direction. "I don't plan to find out!"
Raising my face to the sun, I pulled off my bonnet and let the wind take my hair. The prairie blurred around us, a streak left in our wake. Kissed by sunlight and warmth, by everything possible, I whooped and sat high in my saddle.
I was alive, and I wanted to be alive until my time.
Epilogue
The end I'd expected in the West was a beginning after all. It was not until Emerson and I stopped for the night that I discovered how much of one.
Rifling through the mail in Emerson's saddlebag, I read missives from Mama and Papa and a few pretty notes from Mattie. They seemed so far away, hints of their perfumes and colognes on the pages. They were little scraps of Baltimore to tease my senses—but they no longer made me ache; I didn't yearn for that city by the bay.
Kissing Mama's letter, I tucked it away with the rest. Then I reached for the remaining envelope.
A chill came on fast when I saw the handwriting. It had once graced a hundred futures at the last slant of daylight. But that was impossible—it couldn't possibly be true. The letter inside illuminated nothing, it simply said:
Please come.
"Emerson," I said when I finally found my breath. Folding the letter in half, I looked to him. He was already drowsy, resting his head against the saddlebags and trying to fall asleep.
"Mmm?"
Rubbing a hand down his face, he held out a hand to me, beckoning me. His face was soft, clean now that we'd washed in a river, and unlined as he invited slumber. He was handsome and unmarred, and I wondered very much if I would trouble his brow if I spoke. I spoke nonetheless.
"I want to go to Chicago. Just for a little while."
When I leaned in, he took advantage. Pulling me to lie in his arms, he fixed me against his side and kissed my temple. The raw, rich scent of his skin surrounded me; his warmth lured like a siren to close my eyes and sleep awhile as well.
I pressed my knuckle into his ribs; not hard, just enough to get his attention. "Chicago, Em?"
"Whatever makes you happy, Zo."
He smiled, and didn't bother to ask why. And I was glad. There would be no explaining that I needed to see, with my own eyes, a dark miracle—
Amelia van den Broek, risen from the dead.
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to...
My editor, Julie Tibbott, for taking the chance on these wild, elemental children-—her support and enthusiasm have lent more magic to The Springsweet than she knows.
Jennifer LaBracio, for all the marketing you can shake a stick at; Jennifer Groves, my very own publicity star, and the entire team at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt for turning words into beautiful, beautiful books.
My agent Jim McCarthy, for notes, for plans, and for those brilliant e-mails that neutralize my neuroses in a single blow.
Darlene Engleking from Engleking's Country Beef Shop, for selling me her gorgeous farm eggs and patiently answering questions about them as well.
Leah Hansen from Hansen Wagon and Wheel, for the detailed explanation of buckboards and how to attach them to horses.
Carrie Ryan, for keeping me sane when I most assuredly was not sane myself and knowing exactly when to make me cry.
Aprilynne Pike, the amazing, incredible, iPhone-at-the-gym-reading genius. I owe you at least 1/28th of my soul.
Sarah MacLean, for indulging me even when I horrify her, and R. J. Anderson, for laughing when I try not to horrify her.
Sarah Rees Brennan, my Sass Sr., who tells me books and movies, and pets my head, and quite possibly never sleeps.
Cheryl Renée Herbsman, for reading blind; Sarah Cross, for forgiving me Thomas; Sonia Gensler, for checking my Okie; Christine Johnson for telling me it wasn't the worst book in the world.
Rachel Hawkins, who I hope will now forgive me for whiffing the amazeballs in Decatur.
L. K. Madigan, for reading everything first; for the great emptiness I feel knowing that this was our last.
My Wendi, because she loves Zora the most (and me, too).
My Jason, for every sacrifice he's made for me and for our family-—you are a good, good man.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
The Springsweet Page 18