“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 women’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 rubdown 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. A light snow is beginning to fall. Hiram’s footprints, crisp in the fresh snow, lead toward the house.