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 swaybacked mare. A huge tear in his hat has been hastily stitched with dark 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, where they pause to don their hats and pull out their pipes. Coals glow in their pipe bowls, and sickly 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.