*Isabella*
The mornin’ is silent, thick with grief. Last night’s fight was bloody, and the weight of it still presses down on all of us.
Dust swirls around the worn wooden sides of the wagons as we roll forward, the fields stretchin’ out around us in shades of brown and gold. The sunset paints the sky in hues of ochre and orange—so different from the deep green forests, the grassy glades, and the hills and valleys of Tennessee. This journey, this transformation, feels just as drastic. I’m caught in the space between sorrow and adventure, my heart torn between what we’ve lost and what lies ahead.
Today, rather than ridin’ with Chet, I stay in the wagon with Ma and the youngin’s, offerin’ what little comfort I can.
Pa keeps his eyes locked on the horizon, his shoulders stiff, ever watchf
