He says, “I’m here to help you put—”

“I don’t need your help.” He hasn’t bothered to visit since I was eight years old.

“I don’t think you understand. I’m your guardian now.”

I blink. “Oh.”

I’m still staring up at him when he reaches out with his fine gentleman’s hand and caresses my cheek.

The gold sense wells inside me, so startling and quick that tears spring to my eyes. I lurch away from him, swallowing hard to keep down my breakfast.

“There, there, sweet pea,” he says, as though talking to a recalcitrant horse. “We’ll get accustomed to each other in time. Everything’s all right now, I promise.”

My skin is crawling. Everything is not and never will be all right. Because my uncle is carrying a new Colt revolver, and he’s covered in gold dust.

Sure, he probably brushed it off. Wiped his hands. And I can’t see the gold caught in his knuckles, or trapped beneath his fingernails, maybe even lingering on his overcoat. But I can sense it. I can always sense it.

“Leah?”

Grief washes over me in waves until I’m dizzy with it. Jeff was right: Daddy rushed out of the house to greet someone. Someone he was glad to see.

And my uncle killed him. His very own brother.

“It’s okay to cry, baby girl,” he says.

I blink against tears and clench my fists, imagining what it would be like to feel his nose bust under my knuckles. But my rage dribbles away, and my legs twitch as if to flee. Is he going to kill me too? Who would help me? Not Mrs. Smith, who even now gazes up at my uncle like he’s the second coming of George Washington. She would never believe me. No one would.

“You have room in the barn for my horse?” he asks, and for the first time, I notice the tall black gelding hobbled behind him in the woods. It’s snowing again, and the horse’s back is powdered with white. “Poor boy could use a bit of pampering.”

There’s not a hint of regret or shame in his face. No fear of discovery in his voice. And maybe that’s what will keep me safe, for now. I can’t let on that I know what he did.

I force my voice into perfect blandness. “I have two empty stalls. Put him in the one by the door, or Peony will give him a nip.”

“We’ll talk more in a bit,” he says. “I’ll come back later to pay my respects.” He tips his hat to Mrs. Smith, who stands enthralled beside me, and he heads back toward his gelding.

“I’m not moving to Milledgeville!” I call out after him.

He looks over his shoulder. He’s still wearing that slight smile. A whole world I don’t understand is in that smile. “Of course not,” he says.

Why did you do it? I want to scream at his back.

“A very fine man, your uncle,” Mrs. Smith says.

“I hardly know him,” I murmur, still staring after him.

“Well, you’re lucky to have him.”

I say nothing. Mrs. Smith has known me my whole life. But she’s delighted to see me given over to a perfect stranger, for no other reason than I’m a young girl and he’s a fine gentleman relative.

There’s no proof Hiram murdered my parents—not unless I lay my secret bare, the one I swore to Mama and Daddy I’d never reveal. There’s nothing I can do.

Well, maybe there is one thing.

I’ll wait for you in Independence.

I return to the house and discover that several people dropped off food before heading back to their own homes. I count three jars of jam, two baskets full of biscuits, a meat pie, some baked ham and smashed potatoes. More than I can possibly eat. Warmth swells in my chest, surprising me. The people of Dahlonega are a gossipy, small-minded lot, but we’ve always taken care of our own.

Boots tromp up the stairs outside. The braid rug covering our hidey-hole has puckered at the edge. Quick as a snake, I put my toe out and stomp the wrinkle down. I almost laugh aloud at myself. Hiram already stole my gold. Keeping secrets is such a habit.

He doesn’t even knock, just swings the front door wide and strides inside like the house has been waiting for him. He whips off his gloves and whacks them against his thigh, sending powdery snow falling to the floor.

I don’t bother to hide my glare. “Hang your hat and coat there by the door,” I say, indicating the iron hooks in the wall.

“What culinary delights are conspiring to make my mouth water?”

If he’s trying to sound like a fine Southern gentleman, he’s failing. “I don’t know. Whatever folks left for us?”

“I smell baked ham,” he says, shrugging off his overcoat. “Fix a plate for me?”

I consider storming off, but I can’t shake my upbringing. When you have a guest in your house, you fix them something to eat. I grab a clean plate from the hutch and cut him a slice of ham, then surround it with potatoes and biscuits. I hope he chokes on the first bite.

Hiram makes himself at home. He has a heavier step and quicker movements than my daddy, and the tobacco scent of him swells, pushing everything out of its way, making the air of my home seem unfamiliar and strange. He settles into Daddy’s chair by the cold box stove, and I put the plate on the side table next to him.

“Help me with my boots,” he says.

My gut churns as I approach, careful like a cat. I kneel at his feet, and my fingers squelch in lingering mud as I grab and yank. The boots come loose easily enough that he could have done it himself. He sits back, sighing like a man well and truly satisfied. “Thank you, sweet pea.”

I ignore him, setting the boots by the door. I wipe my hands on a rag. Then, standing straight as I can, my chin in the air but my face as void as a snow-blanked hill, I ask the question that’s been squeezing my soul: “How long are you going to stay?”

He pulls a pipe from the breast pocket of his vest. It’s carved with vines, and the sick-sweet scent of tobacco gets even stronger, though the pipe remains unlit. He contemplates it a moment, smiles a small, secret smile, then shoves it back into his pocket. “Forever, Leah,” he says finally. “This is my home now.”

“It belongs to me. Daddy left it to me in his will.” My fists clench at my sides again. “You know it. You’re the one who drew it up.”

“He left this homestead—everything—to me,” he says.

I open my mouth, close it. Try again. I imagine I look like a brook trout, tossed onto the bank and gasping.

His voice gentles. “You need proof; I can see that.” He puts his stockinged feet up on Daddy’s stool and leans back. “My boy will be here soon with all my belongings. When he arrives, I’ll unpack my office first and show you my brother’s will, signed by Reuben himself.”

It takes a moment for me to realize “boy” refers to his slave. If Daddy knew that his brother owned slaves . . .

My eyes prick with tears all over again. I won’t cry in front of him. I won’t.

“Be reasonable, sweet pea. Such a will would have been invalid, anyway. The law, in its wisdom, protects the weaker sex from the hardships and vicissitudes that attend the ownership of property.”

“I’m not weak.”

“Of course not. You’re a Westfall.” His smile is all teeth. “But you are a young lady, one who has just suffered a terrible tragedy, no less. It’s a good thing I came when I did.”