“But they’ll behave,” Lucie says.

Therese and I exchange a look.

“That’s very optimistic, ma’am,” I say. “Also, I can’t imagine Mr. Joyner—”

“Mr. Joyner has no business judging anyone,” Lucie snaps.

I recoil, startled at her burst of anger. “Why do you say that?”

“That man, he was hiding in his wagon for weeks because he had la rougeole. Can you believe?”

I blink. “Wait. He had the measles?”

Therese rolls her eyes. “He says he was hiding so no one else would catch it.”

“Such a spirit of kindness,” Lucie says dryly.

“And he’s lucky his wife and children didn’t,” Therese adds. “Especially with Mrs. Joyner in the family way. But I think he was ashamed.”

“And rightly so,” Lucie says. “Anyway, he should not judge. You have done your share, it is the truth. You’ve worked as hard as anybody, and harder than some. What do you want?”

What do I want? To stop lying, for sure and certain. But I also want to keep greasing the axles and riding Peony and hunting game and earning my own way. “I don’t mind working. I mucked stalls and found . . .er, panned for gold and went hunting on our homestead while growing up. But I did it as me.” As a girl with gold-witching magic. “As a girl.”

“A woman,” Lucie insists.

Therese helps me to my feet. My leg throbs, but it bears my weight. Holding Therese’s shoulders, I step into Lucie’s skirt. My man’s shirt tucks in nicely, and Lucie helps me tie the skirt in back. I twist in place, letting it swish around.

I take a deep breath, the first really deep breath I can remember in a long time. It feels like I’m back in my own skin, after six months of wearing someone else’s.

“Here are your boots,” Therese says, pushing them forward. “I got out most of the blood, but they have a few stains now.”

I slide them on, gratitude clogging my throat.

“It’s all right if you want to hide in here a bit,” Lucie says.

“No use putting it off,” I say, but I stare at the canvas opening, unable to reach for it.

Lucie loosens it, and light pours in. “Be careful with that leg,” she says.

I blink into the sunshine, bracing myself for rifles and pitchforks and angry glares. Except for Peony, the wagon circle is empty, the cook fires cold. A cloud of dust rises in the distance, back the way we came.

I climb over, using the toolbox as a step, so I don’t have to jump far with my bad leg. Therese and Lucie climb out behind me.

“Where is everyone?”

“The men spotted a herd of pronghorn,” Lucie says. She holds her hand over her eyes and stares into the distance.

“Antelope?” I slam my hat onto my head, gingerly lower myself down, and hobble over to Peony. I grab the saddle; Mr. Joyner’s rifle is gone.

“Where are you going?” Lucie asks, voice full of concern.

“To make sure we get one.” Really, I just want to be riding Peony again because I’m never uncomfortable on her back, no matter what I’m wearing. “We haven’t had fresh meat for more than a week.”

I saddle her quick, mount up, and adjust the skirt to drape comfortably. The fabric flaps in the wind, but Peony doesn’t seem to mind. The ankles of my boots show, but it’s nothing everyone hasn’t been seeing for months.

“Watch the leg,” Lucie says, but she’s grinning ear to ear.

“Good luck, Lee!” Therese says, and her gaze has a bit of longing in it as she watches me ride off.

Outside the wagon circle, Mrs. Joyner, Mrs. Hoffman, and the Major are watching the children play. I wave as I ride by, and after a moment’s pause, the women wave back. Major Craven stares longest, but eventually he waves too.

Peony sees the other horses ahead and pulls at the bit. I let her loose as gunshots crack the air. A small herd of antelope leaps away. The men give chase, but the herd is too quick, and they pull up after only a few strides.

“Did we get any?” I say, riding into the group. I am going to brazen it out, even if my skirt feels like a giant flag.

“Hey, Lee,” Jefferson says, all business. Like there’s nothing different about me at all.

The bachelors tip their caps, wearing small, secretive smiles. Mr. Robichaud nods to me. Mr. Joyner’s face is mottled with scabs, his eyes red-rimmed, his brows furrowed, but he nods too. Mr. Hoffman says, “Lee, I want to thank you—”

“Nice skirt, Georgia,” says Jonas Waters, Frank Dilley’s second-in-command.

I frown. “Never mind that. Did we get any?”

“Tom winged one,” Jefferson says. “But it didn’t go down. The others leaped away too fast.”

Once pronghorns spook, lightning can’t catch them. The herd is disappearing over a low hill, but a few stragglers lag behind.

“They’ll stop at the river. Let’s cut around that way, stay downwind, see if we can get a second shot.” I head off as soon as I say it, like I have on a dozen other hunts. I glance back over my shoulder. Everyone is right behind me except Mr. Joyner, who hesitates before deciding to follow.

Just as I suspected, we round the bend and find the small herd at the water’s edge. Only half of them drink. The rest hold their heads high, ears twitching, ready to bolt at the slightest alarm.

“It’s a long shot,” I say softly. “But I don’t think we can get any closer. Can I have the rifle?”

Mr. Joyner shakes his head.

“Why not?”

“You’re . . . you’re . . .”

“I was a woman the last time I shot something for you.”

“Take my gun,” Jefferson says. When Mr. Joyner glares at him, Jeff says, “She’s a good shot. And I’m hungry.”

“We can do this ourselves,” Mr. Joyner says. He lifts his rifle and aims it. “Let’s all pick an animal and fire on the count of three. One . . . two . . .”

“No!” I shout, but my voice is drowned out by the ragged volley. Not a single animal falls, but they all spring away.

I lift Jefferson’s rifle, and though it isn’t nearly as sound as Mr. Joyner’s, its heft is familiar. I’ve shot it plenty of times, and I know just how it handles. I sight the last animal in the herd. It struggles to keep up; probably the one Tom winged. I aim just ahead, in the direction of its flight, note the westward breeze. It’s getting too far, too fast.

I am patient. I am a ghost.

Rear trigger, soft breath, hair trigger, crack! Smoke puffs up as the butt kicks into my shoulder. Almost two hundred yards away, the poor animal’s rear legs fly out sideways, and it goes down in a cloud of dust.

Jefferson whistles as I hand the gun back to him.

“Not bad for a girl,” says Jonas Waters.

“It’s not bad for anyone,” Jefferson snaps.

“I slowed it down for you,” Tom says, but he’s grinning.

“Don’t worry, we’ll share it.” I realize, belatedly, that this isn’t my promise to make. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Joyner?”

But he’s already heading back to camp alone. The hollow pit in my stomach has nothing to do with hunger.