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until most of the travelers had bedded down for the night.
    Clarissa’s feet were beginning to blister and ache fiercely, but she’d decided not to complain to Mr. Clements. It still irked her that he’d been so sharp with her about driving the oxen. In her mind he’d insulted her abilities, and after what Chad had done to her, she was not about to admit she needed a man’s help for anything, especially one as bossy and arrogant as Dawson Clements.
    What an odd sort of personality he had. He seemed to have an extraordinary dislike for any form of discipline, and in his eyes, that could be a simple spanking. Last evening he’d called a quick meeting to add to his list of rules, which was that he did not want to see a child beaten or spanked. They were told that if a child misbehaved he or she was to be brought to him in the evening and he would give them a good talking to and some kind of extra chore that would cure them of misbehaving again.
    He told them that one thing he admired about Indians was that they never screamed at their children or physically hit them. Indian children learned discipline through praise for the things they did right. When they did something wrong, the adults would show extreme disappointment and sadness over it so that the child was so embarrassed and felt so sad that he or she never misbehaved in that way again.
    â€œPraise is the key,” he told them. “Children love to please their fathers and mothers. Spankings can destroy their spirits.”
    Destroy their spirits. Later that night, Clarissa, Michael and Carolyn talked about the man’s strange new rule, especially his comment about spankings destroying a child’s spirit.
    â€œThe man was talking from experience. Anyone can tell that,” Michael surmised.
    â€œYes, and since he told us he ran away at thirteen, surely he’d been abused,” Carolyn suggested.
    â€œBy a preacher perhaps?” Clarissa offered.
    Michael sighed deeply. “I hate to think so, but I’ll bet you’re right.” He shook his head. “How sad. And you know something? That man’s own spirit has somehow been destroyed. That explains why he doesn’t seem to have any true joy about him.”
    Carolyn nodded. “I have a feeling that teaching him about true joy will be a bigger challenge than we thought.”
    Clarissa had to smile now at the thought of their conversation. Michael and Carolyn had taken on the salvation of Dawson Clements as a personal and very important project. That was the kind of people they were, the kind who cared about another’s troubles and did what they could about them—the kind who would not turn their backs on a divorced woman with a daughter to raise, the kind who prayed for men like Dawson Clements, who probably cared absolutely nothing for them in return. True, loving, spiritual, honest men like Michael Harvey were rare indeed. He was not good-looking or big and strong or good with his fists, but he was a real man in so many other ways, with a courage of spirit that was brave enough to reach out to those who didn’t want and would not ask for his help.
    Then there was Dawson Clements, disturbingly handsome, a man who was big and strong and good with his fists and probably with a gun—but who wouldn’t think of reaching out to those who didn’t want his help and who seemed to practically scoff at prayer.
    â€œWho are you, really, Dawson Clements?” she muttered as she switched at the oxen to keep them moving. She hated to admit it, but the man had been right that walking so many miles every day leading the oxen would begin to take its toll. Her feet were killing her!

Chapter Nine
    May 8, 1863
    T he pouring rain brought back memories of Shiloh. Just like that night Sergeant Bridger was shot in front of his eyes, Dawson huddled down inside his rubber poncho. He cursed the turn of events. It had poured for practically the past