Free For Time and Eternity by Allison Pittman

it up dripping and soft. He slurped the excess broth, then bit off the rest, somehow managing to chew and smile with the same mouth.
    “Try it,” he said, adding the act of speech.
    “I’m letting it cool,” I replied, giving it another blow for good measure.
    “Soup’s best when it’s hot.” He dunked his bread again. “I think the flavor’s in the steam.”
    “That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard.” Still, I dunked my bread too, an act that Mama would never have allowed at our own table. Careful not to drip onto my chin, I took a bite, pleased with the gooey, warm, flavorful mass. “It is delicious,” I said once I’d swallowed.
    “It’s the wild onions, I tell you.” He tipped his bowl and took a great swallow. “And to think, your pa would have thrown them right onto the compost pile.”
    Indeed. I balanced my bread on my knee and fished around in my bowl with my spoon until I found a bite of chicken. Lifting it out of the broth, I blew until the steam no longer rose and plopped it into my mouth, chewed, and swallowed. And the rest of our meal was just like that. Warm and silent.

Chapter 6
    It seemed for the rest of the afternoon I was handed off from one person to another. I told my family’s story at least a dozen times—that we had a small dairy, that I would be sixteen in September, that I met Nathan on my way to school, that the butter and cheese were my mother’s specialty. In return, I learned very little. True, I asked fewer questions, but those I did all seemed to garner the same curious answer: they were all given over to the will of Heavenly Father. And given the peaceful smiles on their faces, they were happy to be so.
    Slowly, I began to make sense of the family groups—who was the husband of which woman. What children belonged to which family. From what I could tell, there seemed to be a dozen families in all, plus Nathan and Rachel. Maybe fifty people. Brother Thomas was the oldest, and his wife, the fragile Sister Ellen, told me their children and grandchildren waited for them in Utah. That seemed to be the story for many of the people here. They had parents, children, brothers, and uncles who had gone on ahead to build the great city in the new Zion, marking the trail for the Saints to follow, so they said. Listening to them, I felt none of the fear I thought I should, given my father’s suspicions. For the most part, I could have been at a picnic with my very own church family, I felt so much a part of their fold.
    Still, I took great comfort when Nathan’s now-familiar hand came to rest on my arm, and I turned to look into his welcome eyes.
    “Walk with me?”
    “Of course,” I said, suddenly eager to get away from the crowd.
    He led me to where the clearing opened out to the river’s edge. It was a secluded spot, probably a mile south of the tiny dock our town had set up for its crossing. Here along the shore were six wagons, all lined up. Alongside them were barrels and open trunks, waiting to be filled and packed away, I assumed.
    “We have quite a few people at your town’s market today,” Nathan said, anticipating my question. “If they trade well, they’ll come back with flour and cornmeal. We’ve already cured some beef and pork.”
    “So you leave in three days?”
    “Fewer, actually.” He spoke with his jaw clenched. “I spoke with Brother Thomas a few minutes ago. He’s received word that the rest of our party is waiting for us in Lincoln. We’ll pack tonight, and since tomorrow’s the Sabbath, we’ll spend it in prayer and preparation.”
    “And leave Monday?”
    He nodded. “We used the lumber we cleared to build a ferry—”
    “But we have a ferry! Mr. Moore’s—”
    “We want our own. It isn’t much, just enough to take two wagons at a time. But our people have told stories—some ferrymen charging outlandish fees to transport wagons. Or torching them midcrossing.”
    “Mr. Moore would never—”
    “We’ve seen too much of