His bushy eyebrows knit together as he looks at me, straight on. “This nugget is nothing, Lee. Even your magic is nothing. You’re a good girl and the best daughter. And that? That’s something.”

I can’t even look at him. “Yes, Daddy.”

I return to the table to finish cleaning my rifle. It’s a good time for quiet thinking, so I think hard and long. If Mama won’t let us sell our gold dust, and Daddy refuses to let me keep that nugget, then I need to figure out another way to make ends meet.

I pause, my rag hovering over the wooden stock. “I could do it,” I say.

“What’s that, sweet pea?” Daddy says.

“I could take our gold to get assayed in North Carolina. I’ll drive Chestnut and Hemlock. The colts’d be glad for—”

“Absolutely not,” Mama says.

“It’s nice of you to offer,” Daddy says in a kinder tone. “But the road is no place for a girl all alone.”

“You’d be robbed for sure,” Mama adds. “Or worse.”

I sigh. It was worth a try.

Mama’s gaze on my face softens. “You are such a help, my Leah, and I love you for it. But you would do too much if I let you.”

“Tell you what,” Daddy says. “When this cough settles, maybe your mama will let you come with me.”

“Maybe I would,” Mama says unconvincingly.

“I’d like that,” I say.

When this cough settles, when this cough settles, when this cough settles. I’ve heard it so many times it’s like a song in my head.

Maybe I’ll set traps this winter. Maybe we’ll have another big flood, which will give us an excuse to say we found more gold. Maybe our winter wheat will do better than expected. Maybe I’ll escape to Charlotte with that bag of gold and beg forgiveness afterward.

Maybe I’ll become a real witch, who can cast a spell that will keep our barn dry and fill our cellar.

Chapter Three

By morning, the air has warmed enough that fog slithers thick and blue through the creases of my mountains. Because of yesterday’s hunting success, Daddy lets me hitch Peony to the wagon and drive to school.

As soon as I pull up, I can tell something is amiss. Instead of pelting one another with snowballs or playing tag or hoops, the little ones stand clutched together for warmth, holding tight to their dinner pails, speaking in hushed tones. It’s like someone important has died, like the governor. Or even the president. But no, the courthouse flag is not at half-mast.

I hobble Peony and scan the schoolyard for Jefferson. He has a knack for seeing everything around him, and if anyone can speak truth to me, it’s him.

Annabelle Smith, the judge’s daughter, finds me first. “Well, if it isn’t Plain Lee!” she calls out. “Driving to school like the good boy she is.” The girls my age are clustered around her, and they giggle as I approach.

“You seen Jefferson?” I ask.

“Shouldn’t you be out hunting?” Her smile shows off two adorable dimples. God must have a wicked sense of humor to make such a devil of a girl look like such an angel. “Or mucking around in the creek?”

“Please, Annabelle,” I say wearily. “Not today. I just want to talk to my friend.”

Her smile falters, and she indicates a direction with a lift of her chin. “I think he has something you’ll want to see.”

I’m not sure what that means, but I nod acknowledgment and head off toward the outhouse.

Behind it is Jefferson, surrounded by a gaggle of braids and skirts, which is odd because the town girls—even the younger ones—usually avoid him. He stands at least a head above them all; tall enough so the hem of his pants sits high, revealing feet that are bare, even in winter— He must have outgrown his boots again. His face is framed by thick, black hair and a long, straight Cherokee nose he got from his mama. An old bruise yellows the sharp line of his cheekbone.

He sees me, and waves a bit of paper. He extricates himself from the girls and meets me halfway, at the entrance to the small white clapboard that serves as our schoolhouse. The girls eye me warily, but they don’t follow.

“It’s gold, Lee,” he blurts before I can open my mouth to ask. “Discovered in California.”

My stomach turns over hard. “You’re sure?”

He hands me a newspaper cutout. It’s already smudged from too many fingers, and it’s dated December 5, 1848—more than a month ago.

“President Polk announced it to Congress. So it has to be true.”

Thoughts and feelings tumble around too hard and fast for me to put a name to them. I sink down on to the slushy steps, not caring that my second-best skirt will get soaked, and I rub hard at my chin. Gold is everywhere. At least a little bit of it. How much gold would it take for the president to make a special announcement?

“Lee?” he says. “What are you thinking?” His usually serious eyes blaze with fever, a look I know all too well. A look that might be mirrored in my own eyes.

“I’m thinking you’re going to head west, along with this whole town.” That’s why everyone’s so somber. Dahlonega was built on a gold rush of its own, and every child for miles will understand that change is coming, whether they want it to or not.

He plunks down beside me, resting his forearms on skinny knees that practically reach his ears. “They’re saying the land over there is so lush with gold you can pluck it from the ground. Someone like me could . . .”

Silence stretches between us. He hates giving voice to the thing that hurts his heart most; he hardly even talks about it to me. Jefferson is the son of a mean Irish prospector and a sweet Cherokee mama who fled with her brothers ten years ago, when the Indians were sent to Oklahoma Territory. Not a soul in Dahlonega blamed her one bit, even though she left her boy with his good-for-nothing da.

So when Jefferson says “someone like me,” he means “a stupid, motherless Injun,” which is one of the dumber things people call Jefferson, if you ask me, because he’s the smartest boy I know.

“Daddy will want to go,” I whisper at last. And I want to go too, to be honest. Gold is in my blood, in my breath, even in the flecks of my eyes, and I love it the same way Jefferson’s da loves his moonshine.

But, Lord, I’m weary. Weary of trying to be as good to Daddy as three sons, weary of working as hard as any man, weary of the other girls scorning me. And I’m weary of bearing this troubled soul, of knowing things could go very badly if someone learned about my gold-witching ways. If we moved west, to a place where there was still gold to be had, it would start all over again, harder and more troublesome than before.

Then again, maybe California is a place where a witchy girl like me wouldn’t need an explanation for finding so much gold. Maybe it’s a place where we can finally be rich.

“Da will want to go,” Jefferson says. “But we don’t have enough money to put an outfit together. Look at this.”

He unfolds the newspaper, and the bottom of the article is a list of all the items a family needs to go west: four yoke of oxen, a wagon, a mule, rifles, pistols, five barrels of flour, four hundred pounds of bacon . . .

“That’d cost more than six hundred dollars,” I say.