and removed the cover from the Dutch oven to inspect the browning loaves of bread, then with the pothooks lifted the oven into the wagon, placing the puffy brown loaves to cool.
She had heard stories of Oregon rains all summer on the plains. She stepped to the wagon to examine its tattered cover, though she knew very well that it would not turn water, and rain was not going to hold off many days. The western sky was a mass of clouds, and a stiff breeze from the southwest had sprung up with the turn of the afternoon.
“We'll pull through somehow,” she muttered. “Too late to give up, now that we’ve reached our journey’s end. The good Lord provides a way if we are willing to hew out our paths.” She smiled whimsically to herself, still muttering, “I’ve noticed that all the Lord ever provides is the chance, and come to think of it, that’s all we need.”
But her heart almost stopped beating as she thought of their predicament. She rallied quickly and grinned, trying to make a joke out of a grim fact. Winter was fairly upon them. They were almost out of provisions. They had only the clothes
they stood in and fifty cents in money to carry four hungry children, her uncle Adzi, her husband, John Bainbridge, and herself through the winter in a strange new country.
There was no help to be had in Oregon City. The houses of the few settlers were already filled to suffocation. There was no work to be secured to bring in money or supplies, and yet she reasoned it might be much worse. They were among the few who had
