by Rae Carson
“Which is better?”
“He should go by land. He can keep moving, not get tied down where someone might catch him. It’s hard to run when you’re on a boat, unless you can walk on water like our Lord.”
I choke on a laugh.
Free Jim’s return smile quickly fades as he indicates a twisting blue line that cuts the map in half.
“The Mississippi River?” I ask. It looks huge. Even on paper.
“Yep. Everyone going west must cross the Mississippi eventually. By ferry or steamer.”
“Is that . . . expensive?”
He nods. “The steamer surely is. And bound to get more expensive every month. By this time next year, fares will be double, at least. But once crossed, Independence is just a state away.”
I study the roads that lead from Chattanooga, but there are too many places to remember. As long as I go north and west, I’ll get there.
Jim spreads his hands on the map, one thumb on Dahlonega and the other on Independence. “If Jefferson’s all alone for this part of the journey, he’ll need to be full of care. You understand me?”
“I understand.”
“But if he reaches Independence and joins a wagon train, the guides will take him the rest of way.”
“So, the wagon journey is the easy part,” I say.
He shrugs. “I wouldn’t say that.”
I fall back on my heels, shoulders slumping. The country is bigger than I thought it was, and I’m going to need more money than I realized.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
Chapter Eight
The bell on the door chimes. Free Jim quickly folds the map, stuffs it inside the almanac, and slides it under his counter. A fellow I don’t recognize crosses the threshold and goes straight for the gold mining tools.
“I’ll throw in the wagon too,” I say, as though we’ve been haggling this whole time. “Hiram wants them all gone to make room for his own team.”
“So you’re saying I can get a bargain.”
“I’m saying you can get a fair price.”
“I’d be happy to take them off your hands,” he says. “But I’ll have to stable them at the hotel until I find a buyer, so the best I can offer is seventy-five each. Ninety if you throw in the wagon.”
“They’re a matched driving team and saddle-broke to boot!” The man perusing mining equipment glances our way. I force calm into my voice. “Worth at least two hundred and forty for the pair.”
Free Jim leans forward, resting his arms on the counter. His voice is so low I must strain to hear: “I don’t keep much money on hand. Man like me has no place to put it.”
It’s a split second before I realize he’s talking about the bank. They won’t open an account for a Negro.
“So I mostly trade in goods and store credit, understand? If you want to hear the jangle of gold eagles, and I suspect you do, you’ll have to let it all go for one hundred and eighty dollars, and I’ll be doing that as a favor to your late father.”
“Oh.”
His gaze softens. “Tell you what. I’ll throw in a few men’s shirts.”
“Men’s shirts?”
“I’m sure your uncle could use some new ones.” Whispering, he adds: “Light. Easy to carry. They’ll be worth ten dollars or more to the right person at the right time.”
“I see.”
The stranger picks up a pan, turns it over in the light, as if pondering how such a thing could possibly help in the search for gold.
Free Jim asks, “Ever heard a mockingbird?”
I’m not sure what he’s getting at. “We had one last summer, sounded just like an oriole. Mama would get so excited, then she’d look and look and never see it.”
“You understand what I’m saying, then. If someone’s looking for an oriole, that mockingbird is going to slip right by them.” He pauses. “Anyway, I’ll throw in some men’s shirts. I’m sure your uncle will find a good use for them.”
I swallow hard. “I appreciate that, sir.”
“So. People might come around asking after . . . Jefferson. Which way should I say he went? By land or sea?”
“By sea. He went by sea. I’m sure of it.”
“All right, then.” I’m not sure why Free Jim is so keen to help me out. Maybe it’s because he was such good friends with my daddy. Maybe he has his own suspicions about Uncle Hiram. Regardless, I need to get out of town fast, before Free Jim isn’t the only one who figures what I’m about.
He writes down the total on a piece of a paper. “I’ll need your signature on this bill of sale,” he says. “For when Hiram Westfall comes asking after his horses.”
The bill of sale does not mention the shirts. I sign my name.
Jim counts out a huge handful of eagles and half eagles. One hundred and seventy dollars total, which he bundles up inside four long-sleeved, linsey-woolsey shirts in such a way that they don’t jangle even a little bit. The final ten dollars he breaks into smaller coins and hands to me.
I’m pocketing the coins when he says, “Best of luck, Leah Westfall. Lord willing, I’ll be seeing you very soon.”
My gaze snaps to his. He winks at me.
Free Jim is planning to go west too. I smile, and it feels like my first genuine smile at a fellow human being in days. “I surely hope so, Mr. Boisclair.” I have at least one friend besides Jefferson, and that’s no small thing.
Chestnut and Hemlock were never my favorite horses. Still, I can’t bear to say good-bye. On a promise from Free Jim that he’ll have them tended right away, I leave them behind the store and circle around the crowd on foot. As soon as I’m out of sight of the town proper, I hitch my bundle of boughten shirts and hidden coins under one arm, pick up my skirts with my free hand, and run as fast as I can. It’s three miles till home, and I run the whole way.
Once inside the barn, I pull the doors shut and lean against them to catch my breath. My uncle said he had errands, but I don’t know exactly what that means or how long he’ll be gone.
I race up the ladder to the hayloft and shove a bale aside to reveal my stash of clothing and supplies. My fingers are clumsy on the buttons of my dress, and I force myself to slow down. Good thing I’m wearing my old day dress, which buttons down the front.
I shrug the dress to the ground and unlace my corset. I fold them up and stuff them inside one of the saddlebags. Shivering, I wrap Mama’s old cotton shawl around my chest as tight as I can and tuck in the edges. It doesn’t feel very secure, but it does flatten what little there is. Hopefully, I’ll get better with practice. Hopefully, my chest won’t grow any larger.
I pull on the trousers and shirt I altered, then shrug the suspenders over my shoulders. Daddy’s boots feel way too large on my feet. I’ve tended the garden and mucked stalls in them, even hunted a little, but walking and riding all day long will be a different matter. I’ll just have to make do.
Only thing left is my hair. I grab Mama’s shears.
I’ve always liked my hair. It’s long and thick, gold-brown like my eyes. I was so proud the day Mama let me put it up, knowing it would shimmer in the sunshine. I didn’t bother putting it up today. Before I can think about it a second longer, I grab my braid and start hacking away.
Hair is stern stuff. It takes some effort before the braid comes away in my hand. My head immediately feels lighter. Remembering how Mama always trimmed Daddy’s hair, I snip along the top and sides too, so it’s short all over. I’m probably making a mess of it without a mirror to guide me, but my hat will cover the worst of it.
I shrug the saddlebags over my shoulder. Braid in hand, I start to descend the ladder, but wisps of gold-brown hair catch my eye. They almost blend into the hay, but not quite. I can’t leave my hair
for Hiram to find.
I gather it all up, quick as I can. I’ll hide it in one of the stalls. No—too risky. I should dump it somewhere in the woods, along with my woman’s clothes.
My saddlebags are already fit to burst, but I shove the shiny mess down inside one, anyway, then I spread loose hay around to blur the sight of any stragglers. I drop the saddlebags to the ground and follow them down the ladder.
I toss the bags beside Peony, and I grab her bridle from its peg outside her stall.
The unmistakable clop-clop of hooves nears the barn entrance.
I dart inside Peony’s stall and swing the door shut. I crouch in the front corner as the barn doors creak open and light fills the space, along with a rush of fresh, icy air.
The creak of a saddle as someone dismounts. The jangle of a bridle. “There, there,” Hiram says. “That’s a good boy.”
Will my uncle wonder why the wagon is gone, even though he didn’t ask me to sell it? Will he see that Peony’s bridle is missing from its peg?
I hardly dare to breathe as I strain my ears. He’s unsaddling Blackwind, far as I can tell. Now he’s removing the bridle. Blackwind stomps, and Hiram chuckles. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, boy?” he says. “Fine. A rub down it is.”
No, no, no.
Peony snorts and tosses her head. My uncle’s footsteps approach. “Hullo, girl,” he says.
Don’t look down, don’t look down.
Above me, a thick arm in a black woolen sleeve snakes out. Peony allows her muzzle to be rubbed, though her nostrils remain flared. “You’ll get used to us, girl,” Hiram says. “So will your mistress. I promise.”
The arm disappears. Footsteps retreat. I wait, quiet as a mouse, my heart in my throat, as he rubs down his gelding. Is it twenty minutes? An hour?
Finally, finally, he sets the curry brush back on the shelf and closes Blackwind’s stall. The barn doors shut behind him, leaving me in safe, blessed gloom, and I loose a single sob of relief.
I stay frozen, waiting for him to get out of earshot. When I can stand it no more, I spring to my feet and toss Peony’s blanket over her back, followed by the saddlebags and saddle. As I buckle on the rifle holster, I whisper, “We have to move fast and quiet, girl. Won’t be more than an hour before he starts to wonder why I’m not home yet.” And sooner or later, he’ll figure out what the missing wagon means.
She bears the saddle without complaint, and I heap praise on her and kiss her nose. After one last tug on her girth strap, I take her reins and pull her from the stall. Gradually, quietly, I crack open the barn door and peer outside. Hiram’s footprints, crisp in the fresh snow, lead toward the house. A light snow is beginning to fall.
The barn door isn’t visible from anywhere in the house except the back porch, so I probably have a few minutes to get out, close the door, and get into the cover of the woods. I’m about to yank her forward when I get an idea.
Blackwind’s saddle hangs over the side of one of the empty stalls. I grab my knife from the belt at my waist and saw through the girth strap. It takes longer than I care for, but unless Hiram’s a dab at bareback riding, it’ll be worth it.
I grab Peony’s nose strap and lead her from the barn. The door squeals when I close it behind us. I swing up onto her back. She dances a little, but I dare to hope it’s with anticipation rather than nervousness over the unfamiliar saddle. I check that Daddy’s Hawken rifle is steady in its holster, and give her flanks a light kick. She lurches forward, eager to go, but I keep her at a quiet, patient walk.
The world is smothered in soft white. Fresh flakes continue to drift down, and I twist in the saddle to make sure they’re filling Peony’s tracks. No birds call, no rodents rustle in the barren underbrush, no wind whistles through the bare branches. The winter-still world holds its breath, waiting for me to give myself away with a sound.
I nose Peony behind the barn and into the woods. I bend over her neck to avoid low branches as we twist through the maze of chestnut and red oak and digger pine. The trees break wide too soon, revealing the white ribbon of open road. I pull Peony up short.
If I take the road, I risk being seen by someone who knows me. If I keep to the thick woods, I can’t go fast enough to outrun Hiram.
With a kick and a “Hi-yah!” I urge my horse into a gallop. I refuse to look back.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
Chapter Nine
Peony and I fly down the road. The wind sweeps my hat from my head so that it flaps like a sail at my back, the chin strap strangling my neck. The icy air on my face makes the corners of my eyes tear. Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m leaving home forever, as fast as I possibly can.
We reach the fork, and Peony slows, sides heaving. She noses toward the familiar route into Dahlonega. I steer her left, on to Ellijay Road, but she tosses her head and veers right again. “Please don’t fight me, girl. Not today.” When she feels the reins against her neck a second time, she gives in.
I resist the urge to spur her back into a gallop. Though she pulls our wagon almost every day, I haven’t been running her regularly. I need to take care of her if she’s to stay sound all the way to California.
But this is precious, precious time; the only part of my journey when I can put distance between myself and Hiram before he realizes I’ve run away. Which means I’ll have to run Peony again once she cools off. I’ll have to.
The most dangerous part of the journey is close to home.
“We might make Prince Edward by dark if we hurry,” I explain, my voice sounding hollow and lonely in the empty winter woods. “Daddy’s been there.”
My plan is simple: stay on the big road until I get to an even bigger road, and head off into the woods if I see someone familiar. If I’m lucky—very lucky—the gathering at the courthouse will last a while, leaving the road empty.
An hour passes. I urge Peony into a gallop again. This time, she pulls up even sooner, and I dismount to walk beside her for a spell, giving her a chance to rest.
I feel smaller when I’m not on Peony’s back. Smaller, lonelier, colder. The woods loom to either side, dotted with adjoining paths that all look the same—gloomy tunnels through leafless forest, barely wider than deer trails. What if I’ve missed an important turn? I hope I’m going in the right direction.
Any direction is better than back, I tell myself firmly. Soon enough, with the sun low and me still not home, Hiram will realize I’m gone. He might be searching already. I did my best to misdirect him toward the sea route, but what if it wasn’t enough? There could be men on the road right now, pattyrollers or borrowed miners, coming to ride me down. Maybe they’ll ambush me, bursting out of one of these silent, gloomy trails.
I can’t help myself; I swing back into Peony’s saddle and urge her forward. She tosses her head in protest. “It’s just a few days of hard travel. Once we’re out of Georgia, we can slow down a little.” I reach down and pat her neck. Even in the fading light, she’s a beautiful animal, with a shimmery golden coat and a flaxen mane and tail.
“Peony,” I say, pulling her up and sliding off again. “We’ve got a problem.”
Everyone for miles knows “Lucky’s palomino.” She’s even more recognizable than I am, with a coat bright enough to shine in the twilit gloom. I whip off my gloves and stash them in my pocket. With my bare hands, I shove aside some slushy snow and scoop up the mud beneath it. When I lift it toward Peony’s neck, she twists her head away.
“Sorry, girl, but everyone knows that pretty coat of yours.”
Working fast, I smear mud down the side of her neck. She nips the space near my ear in warning. That’s the thing about Peony—She’s sweet most of the time, but if you do something she doesn’t like, she’ll let you know. Daddy used to say she an
d I got along so well because we had a few things in common.
“Hold still!” I rub a little mud on her flanks, wary of an impending kick. When I smooth it down her rear legs, she whips her tail around to swat my face.
I give her reins some slack and step back to see how she looks.
“Blast.”
It’s only my first day on the road, and I’ve already made a huge mistake. She’s exactly the same horse as before, with her proud bearing and corn silk mane and a glorious tail that almost brushes the ground. Now, she’s muddied up in a way that will draw even more attention, and the precious time I spent disguising her is a total waste.
I start to climb back on, but I pause, foot in the stirrup. There’s another bit of business I should take care of while we’re stopped. The delay might add up to another huge mistake, but ignoring the task could be worse.
Every decision I make right now feels like the wrong one. I’ll just have to be quick.
I hobble Peony and grab my woman’s clothes and shorn braid from the saddlebag. It’s an armful, even rolled up tight as it is, with the corset, the full skirt, and the petticoats. The whole mess is probably worth a decent sum, and for the hundredth time I consider selling it somewhere. For the hundredth time I come to the same conclusion: It would seem mighty odd for a young boy to walk into a store with a bundle of female fixings to sell. They’d take him for a thief for sure—which might make them look close enough to realize he wasn’t a boy at all.
Using a small branch and the heels of my boots, I dig at the ground, squelching up mud and rotting leaves. I don’t have time to make a proper hole, so I settle for a small depression. I drop in my parcel of hair and clothing.
I stare down at it too long, feeling strange. The edge of the skirt’s ruffle has started to escape the bundle, and the shiny braid winks up at me. It’s like I’m burying half a girl here.
Peony’s snort moves me to action. I cover it all up best I can with more mud, add a few deadfall sticks and rocks, which ought to hold if a big rain comes this way. My saddlebags are a lot lighter now. I mount up and kick Peony forward, but my back twitches, like that buried bundle is staring after me and my ill-fitting trousers.