This has been a terrible day right from the moment I woke, from Major Craven’s injury to Mrs. Lowrey’s death, and I didn’t do a thing to make it better. I froze in panic instead of running from the buffalo. I didn’t check on Mrs. Lowrey right away, even though Mrs. Joyner was terrified for her. I didn’t say anything to Frank Dilley and his gang of ruffians during the buffalo hunt.

Leah Westfall was never like that. Only Lee McCauley is so scared and useless.

We reach the wagon. Mr. Joyner is propped up on his mattress, looking wan and tired. Olive sits at his feet, playing with a doll.

I’m about to leave when Mrs. Joyner says, “Where’s Andy?”

“I thought he was with you,” Mr. Joyner says. “He was bored and whining. I couldn’t sleep. So I told him to go find you.”

Mrs. Joyner looks gut-punched. “I was . . . I couldn’t . . . When did you see him last?”

“Hours ago,” he says. “Around lunchtime.”

It’s like her chest cracks open and all the air rushes out as she cries in anguish.

“He’s got to be around here somewhere, ma’am,” I say. I know it’s rude to interrupt their conversation, but I can’t abide one more bad thing happening today. “I’ll go find him.”

She turns around. “Help me down. I’m coming with you.”

There’s no point arguing, so I help her down again. This time she practically jumps into my arms and hits the ground running.

She scurries around the circle of the camp so fast I can barely keep up, checking every wagon, asking people if they’ve seen her little boy. I follow after her, reaching out with the gold sense for my mother’s locket. But after one complete circuit of the wagons, I have to admit the worst: The locket is not nearby.

A crowd has gathered around the Reverend Lowrey, who is sermonizing about the many virtues of his late wife, but they shift their attention when Mrs. Joyner comes running up. “Has anyone seen Andy?”

Reverend Lowrey immediately offers to pray for the boy.

“We will turn the whole camp outside in,” Mrs. Robichaud promises. “Where he is hiding, we go to find him.”

I close my eyes and stretch my gold sense out to its limits. The hidden treasure in the Hoffmans’ wagon shines like daylight, and Major Craven’s cuff buttons tickle the back of my throat. But the familiar tug of Mama’s locket is definitely nowhere near. “We need search parties,” I say, opening my eyes. “In case he wandered away. I’m going out with whoever wants to go with me.”

Frank shares a meaningful glance with another fellow. “We know where he is,” he says.

“Where?” cries Mrs. Joyner.

“The Indians were eyeing him and his pretty blond hair. They wanted that boy of yours. We find the Indians, we’ll find your son.”

“We don’t know that,” I say.

“Well, you look wherever you want,” Franks says. “We’ll be the ones to find him.” He and several others grab their powder horns and start loading.

The Indians didn’t take Andy. We passed them on our way back from hunting buffalo, and I didn’t sense the locket once. But there’s no way I’m saying so to Frank Dilley, a man who raised a shotgun to his own leader just for getting hurt. How much worse would it be for me if he found out I had witchy powers?

I grit my teeth as I watch the Missouri men ride out in a pointless pursuit. Jasper must stay behind and tend to Major Craven. That leaves me, Jefferson, Mr. Hoffman, Mr. Robichaud, Tom, and Henry to search. I ask Jefferson, “Think Nugget or Coney could track him?”

“With all the people and animals that have muddled through here, they’d be lucky to track him if they could see him.”

He’s right. “So we spread out and think like a little boy and try to figure out which way he went.”

“We need a signal,” Mr. Robichaud says. “If anyone finds him, fire two shots into the air.”

We all agree, and we split up and spread out from camp.

The land grows shadowed with dusk. Tiny bugs rise from the grass, fogging my path, while frogs chirrup endlessly. My throat is hoarse from shouting Andy’s name, but there has been no sign of the boy, not even the faintest tickle of gold sense.

A gunshot rings out from the direction of camp. In its echoing aftermath, I can’t tell if another shot follows. I turn Peony around and breeze her all the way back.

The campfires are burning bright when I arrive. I dismount and walk Peony between wagons into the circle. Everyone else is there—Frank and his men, Tom and Henry, Mr. Robichaud, Mr. Hoffman and his two oldest sons, Jefferson.

“Who found him?” I ask. “Where was he?”

Jefferson shakes his head. “No one found him.”

“I heard a gunshot.”

“Rattlesnake.”

“Is anyone bit?” My heart will burst if one more person gets hurt today.

Jefferson’s face is grave.

“Who? Who was it?”

“Athena. Jasper’s milk cow. Tom shot once to kill the snake and then once to put her down.”

Tears spill out of the corners of my eyes, and I scrub at them with the back of my hand. It’s too much. Everything that could go wrong since I woke up this morning has gone wrong. And now sweet Athena, with her soft brown eyes and fine lady lashes.

“Grab some dinner, Lee,” Jefferson says. “You’ll feel better after you get something to eat.”

“I’m going back out. I won’t let today end this way.”

“Lee—”

“I won’t.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Everyone is staring at me. “I’ll welcome anyone who wants to help,” I call out.

No one volunteers.

Frank says, “You go back out there in the dark, you’re asking to get yourself killed. The Indians’ll put an arrow through you. You won’t even hear it coming.”

I look him dead in the eye. “A brave man would offer to come with me.”

“I forbid it. You ain’t going out there.”

“Try to stop me.” I whirl and head toward Peony.

“If you’re not back in the morning, don’t bother!” he shouts after me. “We’ll leave without you.”

My hands are shaking and my eyes are blurry with tears that won’t fall. Footsteps pound after me. I brace myself, but it’s Jeff.

“Lee?”

“Don’t you start,” I snap. “And don’t you dare try to change my mind.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“Oh.”

I unhitch Peony. She nips at my arm, but her teeth don’t touch me, so I know she’s not serious. I stroke her neck by way of apology, but her skin twitches under my palm. She needs a good rubdown. I’ve worked her hard all day.

“Thanks,” I say softly. To her and to Jefferson.

“You’re a McCauley, right? Lee McCauley. That makes us family.”

I choke out a laugh, and then the tears dribble down my cheeks and I’m rubbing my sleeve across my face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jefferson Kingfisher.”

“I knew you’d throw that back at me,” he says.

“Too bad you can’t pick your family.” It’s what Daddy always said about his mother-in-law, my Boston grandma who refused to return my mama’s letters after she ran away to Georgia.