Uncle Hiram tricked my daddy, for sure and certain. He drew up the will, and Daddy signed without question. Hiram was the one person Daddy had trusted and loved enough that he let his guard down.
Trust someone, Mama said. Her dying words, burned into my heart. But she was wrong. When there’s gold to be had, you can’t trust anyone. Not a single soul.
Snow has started to pile up against the barn, and I scoop some of it out of the way so I can swing open one of the barn doors. It’s not until I’m wiping snow from my hand on to my skirt that I realize I’m still wearing my brand-new dress.
Peony greets me with a snort and a head toss. I shove the locket under my collar so she doesn’t accidentally break it, then I slip into her stall and put my arms around her neck. Finally, I let the tears flow.
“You want to go west with me, girl?” I whisper into her mane.
My shoulders relax and my jaw unclenches as she snuffles at my hair and neck. We lived in the barn for two years before Daddy built our house. The animals come first, Daddy always said. They’re our lives and livelihood. I don’t really remember that time—I was too little—but I’ve always felt at home here with Peony. Always felt safe.
Our wagon sits braked in the center of the barn. On each side are four stalls containing Peony and the rest of the team, two milk cows, and now Uncle Hiram’s black gelding. Tack hangs on wooden pegs at the opening to each stall. Hay is stacked against the back wall and in the loft—not enough for winter, not with Hiram’s horse here.
I cast around for our missing gold, but I don’t sense it anywhere. I’d bet all the hay in our barn that Hiram took it to get assayed already. He probably used some of it to pay our debt to Free Jim and then put the rest in the bank. There’s no way I’m getting it back now.
“How do you feel about wearing a saddle again?” I say to Peony. It’s been years since she’s worn anything but a soft halter for riding; I’ve always been able to direct her with my knees. But a trip across the continent will demand a lot more of us, and I’ll need finer control and a firmer seat.
It’s tempting to take the wagon; I could carry more, and Peony is used to that bridle and harness. But if Hiram knows what I can do, he’ll come after me, for sure and certain. I’ll travel so much faster on horseback.
I stumble against Peony with a sudden realization, my knees threatening to betray me. I’m the reason he killed my parents. He wants me. Or rather, my gold sense.
I should leave. Right now. No, tonight when Hiram is sleeping. Maybe I can still catch up with Jefferson. My heart squeezes at the thought. In the space of a week, I’ve lost my parents, my home, and my best friend. But if I catch up to Jeff, I’ll get one thing back.
Daddy has saddlebags around here somewhere. And horse blankets for winter. My neighbors left enough food to give me a fine start. I’ll bring one change of clothes, an extra canteen, Mama’s old tinderbox . . .
Thinking of Mama sends her voice into my head. Nothing slows a girl down faster than haste, she always said when she saw me hurrying my stitches.
I step away from Peony and take a long, slow breath. I need to be smart about this, not fast, and there’s no way in heaven or hell I’m making it to California with nothing but a gun, a horse, and some leftover funeral food. Jefferson, at least, could hire on as protection or even a hunter. Anyone would be glad to have him along. But I’m just a girl. Which means I need money. Enough for almost a year’s worth of supplies. I ought to hire a chaperone too, or no wagon train will have me along. I need to look neat and respectable. I need . . .
I need to be a boy.
My pulse hammers in my throat. Could I do it? I’m strong. I can shoot better than any man in Dahlonega. Maybe if I cut my hair. Wrap my chest tight. It will take a day or two to alter some of Daddy’s clothes to fit me. I have handsome eyes, sure, but some boys do. I’ll just keep Daddy’s hat brim pulled low. When I find Jefferson, I’ll ask him to say I’m his little brother, even though we don’t look a thing alike.
Annabelle Smith would be scandalized to hear what I’m thinking now. But it’s my best shot; I know it is. Once I run off, Hiram will be searching for a girl. And if I look like a boy, no one will think twice about me riding astride or bringing down a deer. I won’t have to be neat and proper all the time. I could travel alone, and no one would pay me any mind.
Even as a boy, I could sure use some money. My hand goes to the locket at my chest. No, not that. But Mama has a nice bracelet. Hiram won’t notice if a few of the chickens go missing.
My chickens. Who will take care of them?
It hits me like I’ve been mule-kicked: I’m leaving home. Once I’m gone, never again will I wake to sun shining through my dormer window. I’ll never again bake a cobbler with peaches picked fresh from my very own orchard. My parents will never get proper headstones.
I’ll just have to make sure it’s all worth it. Find a new way for myself. Maybe California is a place where a woman can have her own land, her own life.
I’ll wait for you in Independence.
I’m coming, Jeff.
Chapter Seven
I’ve spent the last two days being agreeable to my uncle. Not friendly, mind you. Just blankly pleasant enough not to arouse suspicion. I made him breakfast both mornings, helped him take off his boots each night, and let him sleep in my parents’ bed without batting an eye. I’ve also been altering some of Daddy’s clothes to fit me, and I’m exhausted from staying awake so late, peering at blurry stiches by the light of a single candle.
It’s the third morning after the funeral. I’m leaving today. I still don’t have any money, but I’ve scrounged up a few things to sell. I’m trying to decide whether to sell them to Free Jim’s store or head out of town first.
Uncle Hiram sits across from me, eating the breakfast I made. He’s mopping up egg yolk with a biscuit when he raises his head and says, “I’m sending you to finishing school in the spring.”
I sit quietly, hands in my lap, gaze cast down so my eyes don’t give me away. It shouldn’t matter what he says, now that I’m running off, but his declaration makes me feel like a cat with fur being rubbed the wrong way. “The school in town is just fine. Everyone likes Mr. Anders.”
“It was a place to start,” he says around a mouthful of biscuit. “But it’s no place to finish. I suppose letters and sums will be useful to us, but you need to learn style and comportment.”