Walk on Earth a Stranger

I glance around for Peony, as if the brothers wouldn’t take such a perfect, beautiful mare. Tears prick at my eyes. She saved my life with her cantankerous ways. I don’t know how I’ll carry on without her.

If Mama were here, she’d remind me that things could always be worse, and she’d be right. The night was freezing cold, and I was afraid, so I left all my clothes on, including my coat and Daddy’s boots. I’ve got a full outfit, even if it’s filthy from hiding under rotting leaves. I still have Mama’s locket around my neck and nearly ten dollars in my pocket, so I won’t starve for a while yet.

But I’d give it all up to know Peony got away. I hope she’s halfway home to Dahlonega by now.

The camp is a trampled mess. The fire pit is wrecked, and ochre bits of broken jug lay scattered about. My saddlebags are gone, and along with them my knife, the roll of extra shirts, my hat, all my food, even my guns.

My throat tightens to think of Daddy’s Hawken rifle. I loved that gun.

The cut end of Peony’s lead is still hitched to a tree, so I undo it and coil it up. That’s one piece of rescued gear.

I explore the clearing, toeing at leaves and mud with my boots. My bedroll is intact, though it’s thoroughly stomped. I start to roll it up and discover the most wonderful surprise underneath: the cap-and-ball revolver, sitting there, nice as you please. I hardly have time to celebrate before I realize the back of my throat itches, making itself known even through my jangled nerves.

Gold.

I drop to my knees and crawl through the leaves, brushing cold ash and half-burned sticks aside, following the pull. I find them lodged under a small log—four coins total; two tens and two fives. Thirty dollars. They must have gotten kicked aside in the scuffle.

My heart pounds. Can I make it all the way to California with a total of forty dollars? Maybe with a bit of luck. I’m Lucky Westfall’s daughter. If anyone can do it, it’s me.

After shoving the coins into my pocket, I continue circling through the trees. I let out a little yelp. My saddle lies lodged against a trunk at the bottom of the hill. They sliced the straps and tossed it, and I suddenly regret cutting the straps to Hiram’s saddle. The harm we do others always comes back around, Daddy used to say.

I skid down and retrieve the saddle, hefting it over my shoulder. Strange that the brothers didn’t take it. It’s beautiful, and worth a decent price, with diamond patterns punched into the well-oiled leather. Daddy liked his tools and said a smart man always bought the best and took good care of them. Peony’s saddle was another tool to him, and he spared no expense.

Making the climb back to camp with a heavy saddle over my shoulder nearly proves too much. My feet keep slipping, and Daddy’s enormous boots are rubbing a painful blister onto my right heel. The pain evaporates with a sudden thought: They never would have left the saddle behind if they’d caught Peony.

I open my mouth to holler her name, but close it just as quick. Those brothers could still lurking about. Then again, they left the saddle and pistol and coins right where they dropped them. Which means they were hurt bad and needed to see the doc quick. If I were a gambling kind of girl, and I most certainly am not, I’d wager they’ll return to loot the camp in the light of day, just as soon as they’re tended to.

So I take a deep breath and shout it with my whole lungs until I hear it echo back through the rugged hills: “Peony!”

I don’t expect her to come running down the hill like a dog, but . . . I don’t know what I expect.

After calling her name a few more times, I resume the trudge uphill. With luck, she’ll find her way to a good family. One that will pamper her with brushing and treats. One that understands how sometimes even an ornery horse can be the best horse in the world.

When I top the rise, Peony is right there, ears and tail twitching with irritation that I took so long. I drop the saddle and throw my arms around her neck. Her head tosses, as if she’s not sure what all the fuss is about.

I check her over from head to tail, even pull up her hooves and check the frogs of her feet. One shoe might be a bit loose, but other than that she seems perfectly sound. Still I linger, finger-combing her mane, rubbing my hands down her neck, planting kisses on her nose.

She snuffles at my coat, looking for a treat. Poor girl is probably starving, so I set about figuring how to saddle her up again and getting us out of this place. I consider using the length of lead-rope I rescued to rig a temporary fix. But without a blanket to pad it, the rub would give her a sore. I’ll have to ride bareback, the saddle in my lap.

I use a log to mount up. Holding the huge saddle makes my weight awkward and sloppy, but Peony doesn’t fight it. It’s her way of saying she’s as happy to see me as I am to see her.

When we find our way back to the road, I pause.

I look toward Dalton with half a mind to ride right over and tell the sheriff about those brothers. No, that’s a broken notion. I can’t afford one more delay. Besides, Emmett said they know everyone for miles. Who would take the word of a stranger over theirs?

Even if someone heard me out, they’d have questions about my family, my home, my destination. I’d have to tell a heap of lies. Then once they figured out I’m a girl, they’d tie me up and drag me back to Dahlonega faster than I could sneeze. Back to my no-good viper of an uncle, because he’s my guardian, and a fine-looking, well-spoken gentleman besides.

I turn Peony north, toward Tunnelsville and Chattanooga. We keep to the side of the road so we can hide in the woods at a moment’s notice.

Tunnelsville cozies up to the mountain, a whole town built just to support the work of digging a hole. The houses are bare and crooked, most not even whitewashed, some barely more than lean-tos. The railroad tracks I’ve been following end abruptly at a wide, dark tunnel. From its base, a steep trail climbs up and over the peak. It’s as thick as ants, with people and horses and mules, all laden with packs.

The town has one saddler. He’s a squinty-eyed man with a wisp-thin beard and calloused hands. I ask him about fixing Peony’s saddle while he’s bent over an awl and a strip of cowhide. He mumbles something about taking a couple days because of his other orders.

“No! I mean, no, thank you. Can you refer me to someone else?”

“Nearest saddler is in Dalton, which is more than a day’s . . .” His words freeze halfway out of his mouth when he finally looks up and notices Daddy’s saddle.