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feet fly across the cobblestone on Main Street lined with Conestoga wagons parked for the evening. Ever since I can remember, hundreds of them have passed through Centerville like rain in downspouts. Every one of them headed west, stopping in Centerville only long enough to rest or get supplies.
    I go by one with a bed frame strapped to the side.Another has a barrel cinched with a rope as thick as my wrist. As I round the back end of one of the wagons, my shoulder catches a chair leg strapped to the sideboard. It yanks me back as my feet fly out from under me.
    â€œHey, watch where you’re going, pard,” a man calls down to me. He’s standing beside the wagon, working on a wheel he’s removed from the axel.
    I stand up and dust myself off. “That wheel’s taller than me,” I say, admiring its size.
    â€œAnd four inches wide.” The man gives a tug on one of the spokes. “They sink right down in the muck if the wheels aren’t wide enough.”
    I pat the wagon’s side like it’s a horse’s flank. “It’s a whale on wheels,” I say. “I want one of these to take me to Texas one day.”
    â€œWhy there?” he asks.
    â€œDon’t know. Guess because it’s not here.”
    â€œWell, you’re young,” he says. “Got plenty of time to make that happen.”
    * * *
    It only takes me two minutes more to make my way to the governor’s house. It sits on a small rise, like a pedestal. The yard slopes gently up to his front door. Tonight I think it’sodd that the governor’s shades are drawn. He invited me to come by, yet the house appears empty. I knock on the door just before dark.

CHAPTER SEVEN

    I knock a second time and hear feet shuffle inside. I throw my shoulders back and lift my chin, trying to stand a bit taller, a little straighter. It’s not every day the governor invites you to his house . A door slams inside, and all goes quiet. The front door opens a few seconds later.
    Lucinda, the governor’s wife, greets me wearing a purple evening gown. Gold bands of trim on her skirt look like braids of rope. Her face is narrow and delicate, in sharp contrast to her husband’s.
    â€œGood evening, Mrs. Morton,” I say. “I’m here to see your husband.”
    â€œYes, I know,” she says, opening the door and motioning with her head for me to come in. As I walk by Mrs. Morton, the sweet flowery smell of her perfume reminds me of Dad.It is almost like the smell I caught when he died.
    â€œHello, Stephen. Welcome.” The governor, leaning slightly on his cane, shuffles from behind a green tufted sofa and extends his hand.
    â€œHello, sir,” I say, trying my best to deliver a strong handshake.
    A small package, wrapped in brown paper, sits on an end table next to the sofa. I wonder if that’s my package.
    â€œHow are you?” he asks.
    â€œFine, sir, just fine,” I reply.
    â€œI’m glad you were able to stop by. I have something for you.” He studies my face hard for a couple seconds. “Did you know that I’ve met Abraham Lincoln?”
    â€œI heard you say ‘a good friend of mine’ when talking about the president this morning.”
    â€œOliver’s met President Lincoln several times,” his wife says. She’s sitting by the fireplace. Waxy pomade in her hair allows the light from the flames to twinkle on her head. “He telegraphs Oliver quite often,” she adds.
    â€œI can’t imagine what that was like . . . to meet the president, I mean.”
    â€œHe shook my hand the same as you did,” Governor Morton says. “Your handshake might have been a tad firmer,” he adds.
    I laugh. “Amazing,” I say. I steal a second glance at the package, and Governor Morton notices.
    â€œDid you know that the president is a voracious reader?”
    â€œYes, sir, I’d heard that,” I say.
    â€œJust like