“No need, Miss Leah,” he says gently. “The account was brought up-to-date just this morning.”
“What? How?”
He frowns. “Your uncle Hiram paid it. Apparently he’s done well for himself down in Milledgeville.”
My stomach drops into my toes. How did my uncle get here so fast? How did he know?
“That man’s a born politician,” Free Jim says, and it doesn’t sound like a compliment. “Anyway, I’m praying to the good Lord every day on your behalf. Your daddy was a fine man; one of the finest I knew. The world is a poorer place today, but heaven is all the richer.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, swallowing hard. “Thank you, sir.”
Free Jim and my daddy have a history, going back to the first discovery of gold in these parts. Daddy always considered him a friend, and we’ve gotten through many a tough winter thanks to Free Jim and his generous negotiating. We’d have owed him even more for that winter wheat seed if he’d demanded fair market price.
“I thought your uncle would be here,” Free Jim says, glancing around. “He said he had a few errands, but afterward he’d— Oh, there he is. Mr. Westfall!”
My heart races as he calls out my uncle’s name. Slowly I turn.
The conversation around us dies as Uncle Hiram bears down on our little group, tromping through the winter-gray trees like he owns them. He’s followed by Abel Topper, a shovel-faced man with keen eyes, who used to be a foreman before his mine dried up and closed down.
Hiram exchanges greetings with Free Jim, who afterward tips his hat to me and nods in solemn farewell. He and Abel walk off together. Uncle Hiram turns in my direction.
Dread curls in my belly, and I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because he looks so much like my daddy, though he’s more dashing, truth be told. Thick lashes rim sharp brown eyes, and neat sideburns frame a solid jaw. His long nose would be the bane of any lady, but on him, it fits proud and strong. He wears a shiny top hat and a fine wool suit with silver buttons, and the sparkling silver chain of a hidden pocket watch loops across his left breast. His sweeping, knee-length overcoat is unbuttoned, revealing a black leather holster with white stitching slung across his hips. The revolver is partly hidden by the holster, but I can plainly see that it’s tiny, ivory-gripped, and sparkling new.
A Colt.
I’m sure of it.
It doesn’t mean anything. Lots of folks have bought Colts recently. Still, my hand creeps to my imaginary holster before I remember that I’m dressed in funeral finery, that my five-shooter lies lonely on the table.
I glance around. Everyone is clearing out, except Mrs. Smith, who lingers. I edge closer to her.
“Hello, sweet pea,” Hiram says in a slow, sleepy Milledgeville drawl.
Daddy’s endearment, coming from him, feels as false as hearing a cat bark. “Why are you here?”
His smile is just the right amount of sad. “Judge Smith wrote to me with the terrible news. I came right away to put Reuben’s affairs in order.”
Uncle Hiram doesn’t seem all that shaken by “the terrible news.” When my baby brother died, I thought the pain in my chest would never go away, even though I only knew him for a few days.
He says, “I’m here to help you put—”
“I don’t need your help.” He hasn’t bothered to visit since I was eight years old.
“I don’t think you understand. I’m your guardian now.”
I blink. “Oh.”
I’m still staring up at him when he reaches out with his fine gentleman’s hand and caresses my cheek.
The gold sense wells inside me, so startling and quick that tears spring to my eyes. I lurch away from him, swallowing hard to keep down my breakfast.
“There, there, sweet pea,” he says, as though talking to a recalcitrant horse. “We’ll get accustomed to each other in time. Everything’s all right now, I promise.”
My skin is crawling. Everything is not and never will be all right. Because my uncle is carrying a new Colt revolver, and he’s covered in gold dust.
Sure, he probably brushed it off. Wiped his hands. And I can’t see the gold caught in his knuckles, or trapped beneath his fingernails, maybe even lingering on his overcoat. But I can sense it. I can always sense it.
“Leah?”
Grief washes over me in waves until I’m dizzy with it. Jeff was right: Daddy rushed out of the house to greet someone. Someone he was glad to see.
And my uncle killed him. His very own brother.
“It’s okay to cry, baby girl,” he says.
I blink against tears and clench my fists, imagining what it would be like to feel his nose bust under my knuckles. But my rage dribbles away, and my legs twitch as if to flee. Is he going to kill me too? Who would help me? Not Mrs. Smith, who even now gazes up at my uncle like he’s the second coming of George Washington. She would never believe me. No one would.
“You have room in the barn for my horse?” he asks, and for the first time, I notice the tall black gelding hobbled behind him in the woods. It’s snowing again, and the horse’s back is powdered with white. “Poor boy could use a bit of pampering.”
There’s not a hint of regret or shame in his face. No fear of discovery in his voice. And maybe that’s what will keep me safe, for now. I can’t let on that I know what he did.
I force my voice into perfect blandness. “I have two empty stalls. Put him in the one by the door, or Peony will give him a nip.”
“We’ll talk more in a bit,” he says. “I’ll come back later to pay my respects.” He tips his hat to Mrs. Smith, who stands enthralled beside me, and he heads back toward his gelding.
“I’m not moving to Milledgeville!” I call out after him.
He looks over his shoulder. He’s still wearing that slight smile. A whole world I don’t understand is in that smile. “Of course not,” he says.
Why did you do it? I want to scream at his back.
“A very fine man, your uncle,” Mrs. Smith says.
“I hardly know him,” I murmur, still staring after him.
“Well, you’re lucky to have him.”
I say nothing. Mrs. Smith has known me my whole life. But she’s delighted to see me given over to a perfect stranger, for no other reason than I’m a young girl and he’s a fine gentleman relative.