The mud dries on Peony’s coat, making her skin twitch like it’s covered in flies. She shows her annoyance in a hundred tiny ways, from fighting her bridle to flicking her tail.
“That was a bad idea, and I’m sorry. I promise I’ll clean you up as soon as I can.”
She tosses her head as if to yank the reins from my hands. “Stop it!” I snap. “I’m doing the best I can, you ungrateful, mule-headed . . .” My tirade fades as quickly as it came. Yelling at my only companion won’t do me any good.
Night falls. I don’t dare gallop her in the dark, but neither do I dare stop. At least Peony’s shiny coat is becoming a colorless gray in the gloom. No one would recognize her now.
My tiny spark of relief is doused by the clop-clop of hooves. Someone approaches.
Everything inside me yearns to dash for the woods and hide, but I have to face people eventually. I nudge my hat brim low, sit straight in the saddle, and trust the moonlight to hide what it must.
A silhouette appears around the bend and rides toward me at a leisurely pace. Not anyone I know, thank the stars. He’s gray and heavily whiskered, and he stoops low over a sway-backed mare. A hole in his hat has been hastily stitched with white thread.
“Howdy,” he says, with a tip of his hat.
“Howdy,” I reply, tipping my own hat. One little word, but it sets my heart pounding fit to tumble out of my chest.
We pass each other. I stare straight ahead as if I haven’t a care in the world, as if I’ve every right to this road. I imagine him calling out at my back. What’s a young lady like you doing out here all alone? Why is your horse so muddy?
He doesn’t. The sound of his mount’s hooves fades, but it’s a while before I breathe easy. “We did it,” I whisper after a spell. “I don’t think he suspected a thing.”
We press on. The air chills. Peony’s steady steps echo around us. Except for that man with the mended hat, I haven’t seen a single soul, which is odd, even for winter. I’m fretting all over again that I’ve gone the wrong way, when I catch the sharp scent of burning pine. Sure enough, we round the next hill and find Prince Edward.
Houses cluster along a western slope, smoke rising from their chimneys and lanterns glowing in their windows. Below them are a white clapboard church, a small store, and a two-story tavern. Lanterns swing from the tavern’s front post, illuminating the double doors and wooden stoop. Everything I need is there—oats for Peony and supper for me. But I don’t dare go inside.
A group of men stagger from the tavern door, then they pause to don their hats and pull out their pipes. Coals glow in their pipe bowls, and prickly sweet tobacco smoke fills the air.
Quickly, I aim Peony away. We’ll circle the town, keeping to the shadows. Then we’ll find a place to camp for the night.
Too late. “Hey, boy,” one calls out.
I pretend not to hear, but my neck prickles, and my grip on the reins tightens. Peony sidesteps in response.
“Boy, I’m talking to you. What’s your name?”
I recognize his voice now—It’s Abel Topper, from the funeral. The one I saw talking to Uncle Hiram.
I hold Peony to a smooth, casual pace, but my mind races. Topper was a foreman at one of the mines before it dried up. His men—all desperate for work—could be here with him. My uncle might have hired them to look for me. Why did I waste time with that awful mud?
“Leave the boy alone,” someone says.
Topper’s voice drifts toward me. “That looks like Lucky Westfall’s mare, is all I’m saying. Hiram said he’d sell her to me.”
“Topper, you’re too drunk to know a mare from a mosquito.”
“Not that drunk. What’s she doing out here? I’m telling you. . .”
Abel Topper’s voice fades with distance, but I feel his eyes boring holes into my back, and I don’t know what to do about it except to keep us walking. We pass the stable, the church, the store, and a few more small houses. Once we’re out of sight, I kick Peony into a run, urging her to go faster and then faster still.
After a minute or two, Peony pulls up in protest and I let her. I dismount and wrap my trembling arms around her sweaty neck. “That man won’t take you,” I choke out. “You’re not going back to Uncle Hiram. No matter what.”
The most dangerous part of the journey is close to home.
The woods hemming the road are dense and black, and I lead Peony into the cold thick of it. She needs time to walk off her sprint, so I don’t stop until we find a stream with a trickle of water; nighttime makes it look like an inky scar slashing through the ground. I work mostly by feel, feeding Peony what little oats I’ve got in my pack, rubbing her down, checking her over. Galloping her was a stupid and dangerous thing to do in the dark; we’re lucky she didn’t injure herself.
I take my time, making sure to brush away every speck of that stupid mud. When she bumps her head against me, I know she’s finally forgiven me for this terrible day and is ready to rest. I shiver with cold as I hobble her beneath the trees.
Good thing Daddy made me learn how to start a fire in the dark. I scrape a small hole in the ground, rooting around for dry wood as I go, then I pull out my tinderbox and coax up a fire. I hunker over the flames until I stop shivering.
There’s nothing to eat except the trail food in my saddlebag, but I don’t want to touch it. What if it has to last? There could be Abel Toppers in all the taverns, general stores, and boardinghouses from here to Independence.
What’s she doing out here? Abel Topper said. He wasn’t expecting to see Peony. Which means my uncle didn’t send him. In fact, Topper probably arrived hours ago. Maybe even yesterday. Long before I left.
The thought frees me to grab some hardtack and force myself to eat. As I chew, my thoughts drift to Jefferson, who set off with even less than I did. I hope his supplies are lasting and the sorrel mare is doing well by him. I hope he’s safe, with a cheery fire of his own. And to be honest, I hope Jefferson’s soul is giving him a sting that he ran off on me, leaving me all alone.
No, he couldn’t help it. He was in a bad way as much as me, with a daddy who is worse than no daddy at all. It wasn’t Jefferson’s fault. It wasn’t.
The hardtack turns to grit in my teeth, and my stomach rolls over in protest. Turns out, I don’t have room for much inside me except worry and anger and tears that haven’t been given leave to see daylight.
Speak of the devil and you summon it, because just thinking about tears invites them to spring to my eyes. I blink rapidly, trying to tamp them down because they feel like angry tears, not sad ones.
There, I’ve said it. I’m mad.
I’m mad at my parents for not being here, I’m mad at Jefferson for leaving without me, and I’m mad at myself for not going when he asked. I’m mad at everyone back home for brushing off my parents’ murders, and I’m mad they turned the funeral into a church social. Most of all, I’m mad at Uncle Hiram for being a slimy, villainous beast and taking every single thing I ever loved. I’m scared and I’m mad, and both keep me awake in the dark for a long time.
The cold wakes me before dawn. The fire has burned down to nothing. I’m shivering, teeth chattering, and my blanket is soaked with dew.
My stomach is truly empty, and my tears have dried; I won’t be shedding more. I chew on another bit of hardtack as I saddle Peony.
The only way to go is forward. “C’mon,” I say. “We have to keep moving.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
Chapter Ten
The sun is still low enough to brush the hilltops when I see a woman off to the side, collecting eggs from a coop. I keep to the far edge of the road and try not to attract attention.
“Do you want to buy some eggs?” she calls out.
&
nbsp; My heart races, but my stomach rumbles. Reluctantly, and maybe eagerly, I turn Peony toward her.
She cradles the eggs in her apron. Her straw-colored hair peeks out of her bonnet, which hasn’t done a thing to keep the freckles from her cheeks. “How many do you want?” she asks.
“I’ll give you a dime for a dozen.” As soon as the words are out, I know I’ve offered too much.
Her eyes narrow. I resist the urge to check the wrapping around my chest or lower my hat brim even more. “Don’t have that many today,” she says, “but I’ll give you a half dozen for three pennies.” Which is a fair price.
After eating so little last night, I need a good meal, and badly. “Do you have a burning pit nearby where I could fry them up?”
“Come on in, and I’ll fry them myself. Split an armful of wood and bring it inside with you.” She nods toward a stack out by a shed. A maul leans against the wall.
I’m not keen to delay. Or go inside a cozy cabin where someone might get too close a look at me. Then again, I can’t afford to turn down a good meal.
I hop down and hitch Peony to the post beside the watering trough. I work hard and fast, one eye on the road. The effort loosens my cramped legs and makes my shoulders sing. When I’m done, I split and stack a little extra, just by way of saying thanks.
I carry my armful of firewood to the house and find the door propped open. A chubby baby, not even a year old, plays in a rail crib. Bacon pops in the frying pan on the box stove. A plate of fried eggs and a steaming bowl of grits wait for me at the table.
The woman reminds me of my mama, with hair that won’t stay neat and a skirt hem that won’t stay clean. Her husband is probably off at work somewhere, maybe panning in a nearby stream or working one of the smaller mines.
“Drop that wood in the basket,” she says when she sees me hovering. “Then have a seat. I made extra since you seemed so determined to work up an appetite.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” I tip my hat to her, which reminds me that I ought to take it off while inside.
Her gazes catches on my ragged hair, and I suddenly feel like a rabbit about to bolt, but the moment passes and she scoops some bacon onto my plate. “Eat up.”
My mouth waters as I sit down and grab a fork.
“It’s early to be on the road,” she says. “Getting cold out there too, though your pretty mare looks to be putting on a nice coat.”
Stopping here was another mistake. She’ll remember Peony for sure, if someone comes asking. “She’s always been a good winter horse,” I say around a mouthful of food. After swallowing, I add, “Heading to Dalton to see family. Guess I’m in a hurry to get there.”
“Oh. Thought for sure you were heading west after gold. Anyway, pace yourself. You won’t make Dalton today, no matter how early you start or how hard you go.”
“No, ma’am.”
I eat so fast it gives me a bellyache. We say a few more general words to each other, mostly about the weather and the roads, all very polite, neither of us volunteering anything personal. I compliment her on her tidy house and her fat baby, which is always safe, and she observes that Peony looks sturdy and strong. After eating every single bite, I rise to clean my plate, just like I would at home, which seems to take her aback.
“Way my mama taught me,” I say.
She laughs. “Well, you tell your mama she raised you right, next time you see her.”
I hesitate a space too long. “Will do, ma’am,” I answer softly.
She opens her mouth to say something else, but changes her mind. She wraps up some extra food in a handkerchief and hands it to me, along with a couple of wrinkled winter apples.
“For your pretty mare,” she says.
“How much do I owe you for all this?” I ask, reaching for my change.
“Three pennies for the eggs.”
“But—”
“You earned it. That’s enough firewood to get me through the rest of the week.”
“Well, all right.”
I can’t get back on the road fast enough. At least my belly is full and my horse is rested.
As the morning passes, I encounter more travelers, and it’s a little easier each time. Most want to stop for a friendly chat, but I try to keep our interactions to a quick howdy. Twice, when the way is clear, I urge Peony into a run.
By midafternoon, I catch up to a woodcutter, whose slow mule cart is loaded with firewood. A farmer rides beside him, his saddlebags filled with bright red crab apples. As with everyone on the road, I search their faces for a spark of familiarity and am relieved when I don’t recognize either one.
“Afternoon, son,” the farmer says.
“Hey, you’re coming from Lumpkin County, right?” the woodcutter says to me. “You hear tell of Lucky Westfall’s murder?”
My words freeze in my mouth. “I . . . No, sir. Haven’t heard a thing.”
The woodcutter turns to the farmer. “Him and his wife was both murdered. Might be the same gang that killed those Indians out by Dalton.”
“Westfall was an Indian?” the farmer asks.
“No, but they was after gold both times.”
I wait for him to add, “The Westfalls had a daughter. She’s missing now.” Instead, the conversation shifts to unsolved murders from a decade ago, and then to a debate about whether it’s really murder to kill an Indian, and then to the price of winter wheat. I keep pace with them, as they’d expect this close to town, but I’m silent the whole while, and my hands grip Peony’s reins so hard I feel them through my gloves.
It’s early evening when we get to Ellijay, which has several crooked house–lined streets to go along with its white clapboard church and two-story tavern, all tossed around a messy intersection. I count five roads coming together at the center of town, but not a single sign indicating which is which. I work up my nerve and ask the woodcutter to point out the Dalton road.
“There’s not another town until Spring Place,” he says. “And that’s a day’s ride. Come on up to the tavern with us and stay the night.”
“No! I mean, I’ve got a place to stay.”
With a shrug, he points the way, and I hurry off.
Peony and I put a few more miles beneath our feet. The country is so thick with winter-stripped branches and deadfall that it’s nearly dark before I find a good place to steer her off the road and into cover. After a cold, damp night and a breakfast of deer jerky, I hustle Peony through the town of Spring Place. The road beyond is even busier, and saying howdy to so many people is terrible on my nerves. I remind myself that lots of traffic makes it easier to blend in.
I’m not far from Dalton when I’m walloped by the presence of gold. My throat constricts as I blink through fuzzy vision. I pull Peony up short, waiting for the sense to turn sweet on me. It takes longer than usual. Maybe it’s because the gold is on the move. Or maybe, in the days since Hiram stole every speck of my family’s fortune, I’ve gotten out of practice.
Peony dances beneath me, snapping me out of my daze. I hope I didn’t lose time again. I look around to see if I’ve embarrassed myself, but no one seems to care that we’ve stopped dead in the middle of the road. Perhaps it was only a few seconds.
I urge her forward, even as I cast out for the source. A scraggly man approaches, leading a wagon with fresh-cut lumber for the sawmill. Both knees of his overalls are patched, but I’m sure he’s the one who triggered my twitch.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a shiny, golden watch, flips it open, and checks the time. More gold is somewhere close—maybe a handful of eagles. If he’s wealthy enough to afford that watch and carry a stash of coins, he could afford decent overalls. I guess folks aren’t always what they look like on the outside, which is something I think I ought to know by now.
He grins at me with tobacco-stained teeth. “Almost time!” he says.
“For what?”
“You’ll see.”
Not a minute later, a whistle shrieks and a column of dark smoke rises above the trees. It moves closer, picking up speed until the column stretches long, like reins trailing a runaway horse.
“Is that the train?” I ask.
“Well, it sure ain’t a steamboat,” he says with a wink. “It’ll be there when you get into town. You should take a gander.”
“I’ll do that, sir.”
“It’s going to change everything!” he says. “Once that tunnel’s done.”
“That’s what my daddy always says.” Said. That’s what my daddy said.
Sure enough, an hour later I steer Peony into Dalton and discover that the town’s main feature is the train.
I stare agape. It’s a metal behemoth, bigger than any machine I’ve seen or imagined. It makes me glad I’m not an iron-scryer, if such a thing exists, because if it set off my witchy powers, it would leave me dead senseless for a day.
When the train chugs away from the station, Peony and I set out on the Chattanooga road, which follows parallel to the now-empty tracks. I imagine how fast we could get to California if a train headed that way. It might only take weeks instead of months. Truth be told, I’m not sure it’s safe to ride in something so huge and fast.
I’m a mile north of town when horses clop up behind me. I’ve been moving fast, passing lots of folks on the road. But no one has been passing me. I glance back, just quick enough to mark three riders—men in thick beards, weathered coats, and slouched hats.
They gain on me slowly. The first comes up on my right and gives me a friendly nod. The second fellow pulls even on my left. The third rider closes in at my rear.
Peony’s ears go back.
They have a rangy look about them, with sun-blasted skin and unkempt hair. But their guns are shiny and new.