Jefferson’s words return to me like a clanging church bell. I’ll wait for you in Independence.

When we arrive, others are already gathered around the snow-dusted mounds that mark my parents’ graves. The air smells of freshly turned earth. Almost everyone wears black. They huddle in groups, bundled against the cold, their breaths frosting the air. It’s more people than I’d like to see right now, but less than my parents deserve.

Annabelle Smith is the height of fashion, even in mourning black, with a rabbit-fur cape and a poke bonnet with blue silk flowers and long, trailing ribbons. Her young slave, Jeannie, stands a pace behind her, shivering in a thin muslin dress. Reverend Wilson has already taken up his post behind the twin wooden crosses, his huge Bible in one arm and his huge wife under the other.

I’m surprised to see Jefferson’s da. He wears his buckskin coat over stained trousers, and he stares dolefully as I approach, his red nose brighter than ever. Does Mr. McCauley realize Jefferson has run away?

Beside him is Free Jim Boisclair, the richest Negro in Lumpkin County and a great friend to my daddy. He speaks in hushed tones to a few others I recognize from our infrequent visits to the Methodist church. He points to something in his hand. A leaflet, with writing I can’t make out. Several others are clutching leaflets too. There’s a buzz in the air, like when everyone is worked up to hear a new preacher. I can’t shake the feeling that the leaflet is the main attraction and the funeral a mere afterthought.

Upon seeing me, the reverend clears his throat. Conversations die around me. My face warms under the scrutiny of silence, and I’m almost relieved when he launches into his eulogy.

To my dismay, it turns out to be a sermon. He speaks of the toils of this life and how sometimes our troubles make us want to escape to far-off places instead of standing strong in the Lord’s grace. He says the love of gold is the root of all evil and we should be storing up treasures in heaven instead.

Tears prick at my eyes. No one would blame me for shedding a few, but I hold them back anyway, because I don’t want to let rage tears flow when my parents deserve grief. It’s not right, the reverend using their deaths as an excuse to give us all a talking-to.

I’m in a bit of a haze and grateful for it when Annabelle Smith—who wrongly thinks she has the voice of an angel and always sings loudest in church—barrels through all six stanzas of “Amazing Grace.” Everyone comes to shake my hand and tell me how sorry they are and that God is looking out for me as one of his sparrows and do I need anything?

Mr. McCauley hangs back. Gone is his angry scowl. He wrings his hat in his hands and glances around as if searching for something. Finally, he approaches.

“You seen Jefferson?” he asks.

I echo his own words back at him. “Dunno where that boy run off to.”

My mockery is lost on him. “Sorrel mare is gone. And my rifle. I found this by his bed.” He shoves one of the leaflets in my face. “Dog’s gone too.”

I snatch it from his hand and look it over. It’s an advertisement for the Pacific Mail Steamship Company, promising to take passengers to California, beginning in the spring, for the sum of two hundred dollars. This is what everyone’s so excited about. This is what the reverend is speaking out against.

Mr. McCauley says, “You think he went to catch a boat?”

I pin him with a gaze, and he shifts uncomfortably.

My heart starts to soften toward him, but then I remember Jefferson’s busted eye. “He’s probably halfway to Savannah,” I say. “If you leave now, you can catch up.” Keeping the leaflet, I turn my back on him.

Annabelle Smith finds me next. She clasps my hands and says, “I’m so sorry, Lee. I wish . . . I mean . . . I’m just sorry.” She can’t meet my gaze, but her words have a ring of sincerity.

“I’m glad you came,” I say automatically. But suddenly it’s true. I watch her back as she walks away, wondering what it would be like to have a girl for a friend.

Free Jim is next in line. His dark hand closes around my cold, pale one—too tight and too warm—and I blurt, “I’ll make good on Daddy’s credit, Mr. Boisclair, I promise. I just need a little time to—”

“No need, Miss Leah,” he says gently. “The account was brought up-to-date just this morning.”

“What? How?”

He frowns. “Your uncle Hiram paid it. Apparently he’s done well for himself down in Milledgeville.”

My stomach drops into my toes. How did my uncle get here so fast? How did he know?

“That man’s a born politician,” Free Jim says, and it doesn’t sound like a compliment. “Anyway, I’m praying to the good Lord every day on your behalf. Your daddy was a fine man; one of the finest I knew. The world is a poorer place today, but heaven is all the richer.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, swallowing hard. “Thank you, sir.”

Free Jim and my daddy have a history, going back to the first discovery of gold in these parts. Daddy always considered him a friend, and we’ve gotten through many a tough winter thanks to Free Jim and his generous negotiating. We’d have owed him even more for that winter wheat seed if he’d demanded fair market price.

“I thought your uncle would be here,” Free Jim says, glancing around. “He said he had a few errands, but afterward he’d— Oh, there he is. Mr. Westfall!”

My heart races as he calls out my uncle’s name. Slowly I turn.

The conversation around us dies as Uncle Hiram bears down on our little group, tromping through the winter-gray trees like he owns them. He’s followed by Abel Topper, a shovel-faced man with keen eyes, who used to be a foreman before his mine dried up and closed down.

Hiram exchanges greetings with Free Jim, who afterward tips his hat to me and nods in solemn farewell. He and Abel walk off together. Uncle Hiram turns in my direction.

Dread curls in my belly, and I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because he looks so much like my daddy, though he’s more dashing, truth be told. Thick lashes rim sharp brown eyes, and neat sideburns frame a solid jaw. His long nose would be the bane of any lady, but on him, it fits proud and strong. He wears a shiny top hat and a fine wool suit with silver buttons, and the sparkling silver chain of a hidden pocket watch loops across his left breast. His sweeping, knee-length overcoat is unbuttoned, revealing a black leather holster with white stitching slung across his hips. The revolver is partly hidden by the holster, but I can plainly see that it’s tiny, ivory-gripped, and sparkling new.

A Colt.

I’m sure of it.

It doesn’t mean anything. Lots of folks have bought Colts recently. Still, my hand creeps to my imaginary holster before I remember that I’m dressed in funeral finery, that my five-shooter lies lonely on the table.

I glance around. Everyone is clearing out, except Mrs. Smith, who lingers. I edge closer to her.

“Hello, sweet pea,” Hiram says in a slow, sleepy Milledgeville drawl.

Daddy’s endearment, coming from him, feels as false as hearing a cat bark. “Why are you here?”

His smile is just the right amount of sad. “Judge Smith wrote to me with the terrible news. I came right away to put Reuben’s affairs in order.”

Uncle Hiram doesn’t seem all that shaken by “the terrible news.” When my baby brother died, I thought the pain in my chest would never go away, even though I only knew him for a few days.