Deer first, gold later.
I plunge the knife into his left kidney. He squeals once, then goes still. Hot blood pumps from the wound for mere seconds before slowing to a trickle. It steams in the air, filling my nose and mouth with bright tanginess. I’ll have to work fast; if that catamount is anywhere near, she’ll be here soon.
He’s too large for me to carry over my shoulders. I’ll have to skin and butcher him and take only the best parts. The great cat is welcome to the rest, with my blessing.
I place the point of my knife low on his soft white underbelly. The gold sense explodes inside me, so much hotter and brighter than the scent of fresh blood. I can’t help it; I drop the knife and dig furiously at the snow—dig and dig until I’ve reached a layer of autumn rot. Muddy detritus jams under my fingernails, but still I dig until something glints at me. Sunshine in the dirt. Warmth in winter.
The nugget unsticks from its muddy resting place without much effort; this time last year I would have had to dig it out of frozen ground. I scrape away mud with the edge of my sleeve. It’s the size of a large, unshelled walnut and rounder than most nuggets, save for a single odd bulge on one side. Must have washed down the creek during last spring’s flood. I gauge its heft in my palm, even as I let my gold sense do its work. Close to ninety percent pure, if I don’t miss my guess.
Worth at least a hundred dollars. More than enough to buy meat to last the winter.
I sit back on my heels, nugget clutched tight, staring at the animal I just killed. I don’t even need it now. Waste not, want not, Mama always says. And Lord knows Daddy could use a fresh venison stew.
Today is my luckiest day in a long time. I shove the nugget into the pocket of my skirt, pick up my skinning knife, and get to work.
The sun is high over the mountains when I finally haul my venison up the stairs of the back porch. Everything I could carry is wrapped in the deer’s own skin, tied with twine. My shoulders ache—I carried it a mile or more—and though I bundled it up tight as I could, my blouse and skirt are badly stained.
“Mama!” I call out. “Could use a hand.”
She bangs out the doorway, a dishrag in her hands. A few strands of hair have already escaped her shiny brown bun, and the lines around her eyes have gone from laughing to worried.
“Daddy’s not doing so good, is he?” I ask.
Her gaze drops to the bundle in my arms and to the rifle balanced carefully across it. “Oh, bless your heart, Leah,” she says. She shoves the dishrag into the pocket of her apron and reaches out her arms. “Give it here. I’ll get a stew on while you tend your gun and feed the chickens.”
As I hand it over, I can’t help blurting, “There’s more, Mama. I had a find.”
She freezes, and I leap forward to catch the package of meat before it slides out of her arms. Finally, she says, “Been awhile. I thought maybe you’d outgrown it.”
“I reckon not,” I say, disappointed in her disappointment.
“I reckon not,” she agrees. “Well, take care of your business, and we’ll discuss it with your daddy when you’re done.”
“Yes, Mama.”
She disappears into the kitchen. I hitch the Hawken over my shoulder and head toward the henhouse. Just beyond it is a break in the trees. We keep the land clear here, so nothing can sneak up on the chickens easily. It’s a good hundred-yard stretch—all the way to the scar tree, a giant pine I use for discharging my rifle. I whip the gun down and cradle the butt to my shoulder. The wind is picking up from the north a bit, so I aim a hair to the right. Best aim I ever saw from such a wee gal, Jefferson’s da once told me, the only compliment I’ve ever heard him give.
Rear trigger, soft breath, hair trigger, boom. Splinters fly into the air as my shot hits its target. The chickens squawk a bit but settle quickly. They’re used to me.
I lean the gun against the side of the henhouse. I’ll clean her while I’m at the table talking with Mama and Daddy. It will give me an excuse to avoid their worried gazes. “You hungry?” I say, and I hear my chickens—who are not nearly as stupid as most people think—barreling toward the door for their breakfast.
I lift the bar and swing open the door, and they come pouring out, squawking and pecking at the toes of my boots, as if this will summon their breakfast even sooner. They forget all about me the moment their feed is scattered on the ground. Except for my favorite hen, Isabella, who flaps into my arms when I crouch. I stroke her glossy black tail feathers while she pecks at the seed in my hand. It hurts a little, but that’s all right.
I have a strange life; I know it well. We have a big homestead and not enough working hands, so I’m the girl who hunts and farms and pans for gold because her daddy never had sons. I’m forever weary, my hands roughed and cracked, my skirts worn too thin too soon. The town girls poke fun at me, calling me “Plain Lee” on account of my strong hands and my strong jaw. I don’t mind so much because it’s better than them knowing the real trickiness in my days—that I find gold the way a water witch divines wells.
But there’s plenty I love about my life that makes it all just fine: the sunrise on the snowy mountain slopes, a mama and daddy who know my worth, that sweet tingle when a gold nugget sits in the palm of my hand. And my chickens. I love my loud, silly chickens.
Only four eggs today. I gather them quickly, brushing straw from their still-warm shells and settling them gently into my pockets. Then I grab my rifle and head inside to face the aftermath of witching up another nugget.
Chapter Two
Daddy always says I was born with a gold nugget in my left hand and a pickax in my right. That’s why Mama had such a hard time birthing me; she had to squeeze a lot more out of her belly than just a bundle of baby girl. The first time I heard it told, I gave my rag doll to Orpha the dog and announced I would never have children of my own.
It didn’t take me long to figure it for a fancy lie, like the one about St. Nicholas bringing presents on Christmas, or how walking backward around the garden three times would keep the aphids out of our squash. But that’s Daddy for you, always telling tall tales.
I don’t mind. I love his stories, and his best ones are the secret ones, the mostly true ones, spoken in whispers by the warmth of the box stove, with no one to hear but me and Mama. They’re always about gold. And they’re always about me.