UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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Morning brings a new day, and I take up the search with renewed determination. I have to find Jefferson. If I don’t, I have nothing. No one.
I’m methodical, picturing the town and its surroundings like checks on Mrs. Joyner’s tablecloth. I explore each check at a time, corner to corner, and move on to the next. I learn the town forward and backward—every alley, every lean-to, every wagon. Faces become familiar. Some even call out as I pass by: “Hey, Lee! Found your friend, yet?”
And so it goes, day after day, for more than two weeks, past the full moon and Easter Sunday. I haunt the town and the staging areas like a ghost, searching for the one familiar face in the whole world that still means something to me.
By the middle of April, grass shoots start poking up through the prairie mud. Every couple of days, usually on a morning without rain, a wagon company heads west. As soon as it’s gone, a new one sprouts in its place. My supplies run low. An egg that cost me a penny in Georgia costs a dime here. There’s no grazing to be had, and grain for Peony is even more expensive. I spend futile hours looking for a rabbit or squirrel that has somehow managed to evade everyone, but I just end up discharging my revolver and wasting ammunition. At night, I sleep outside wherever I can find a dry place to spread my blanket, usually on the rise a mile outside of town. Most nights I settle for “almost dry.”
As my store of coins dwindles, so does my hope.
Three weeks into April, I’m forced to consider leaving without Jefferson. My heart is heavy as I make one more circuit of the staging area. I wander among the few companies that remain, even peeking toward the one with the Joyners. There’s no sign of Jeff. Reluctantly, I turn away and head back to the town, unsure what else to do.
“Hey, Lee!”
The voice comes faintly over the muddy fields. A man on horseback waves his hat at me—one of the cattle drivers. I don’t remember his name, but I’ve since passed him at least twenty times, watching his herd dwindle from hundreds of cattle to dozens as he sold them off. This is the first time he’s called out to me. At my urging, Peony trots toward him. Maybe he remembers that I was looking for someone.
“Did you find your friend?” he asks as I pull up.
It’s hard to keep the disappointment from my face. “Not yet. Guess I’ll give him another day.”
“There aren’t many more days to give.” A wad of chewing tobacco puffs out his cheek, and he shifts it to the other side. Brown juice stains his graying beard. “I’ll be taking the rest of the herd out soon.”
I repeat the same thing I’ve said a hundred times the past few weeks: “Well, good luck. Maybe I’ll see you in California.”
“I could use an extra hand. The rest of my crew ran off with other companies when the weather turned. I’ve only got about a sixty head left. Too much work for one man, but not quite enough for two. So one and a half seems about right. I’ve seen you on that pony. You ride well, and a sturdy little lady like that should do fine on the trek. You interested?”
My head spins. I haven’t given much thought to working my way west. When I had the Hawken, I figured I’d buy as many supplies as I could and hunt for the rest. “What’s the pay?”
He turns his head to squirt out a line of tobacco juice, then he squints at the horizon. “Board, if that’ll suit you. All the way to California, or wherever you hop off. ’Course, a fair bit of it it’ll be beef.”
It’s a good offer. Still, I hesitate.
“And two dollar and two bits a week, to be paid whenever we decide to part ways,” he adds in response to my silence. “If any of the cattle make it as far as San Francisco, I figure I can sell them for five to ten times what I can get here. So there might be a bonus.”
I do the arithmetic in my head. I’d end up with around fifty dollars. More than enough to buy pickaxes and lumber and food to get me started. “Sir, I don’t recall your name.”
“It’s Jacob, Jacob Jones.”
“Mr. Jones, it sounds like a fair offer. But I still need to look for my friend. We planned to meet here and go together.”
“Could be gone with another train already. Could be waiting for you there.”
“Could be.” It feels like no matter what I decide, it’ll be a mistake.
Jacob says, “Have you checked the post office lately?”
“He’s not going to mail me a letter.”
“Sure. But folks leave messages for one another at the post office. Maybe he left a note, saying where he went.”
My heart leaps. Why didn’t I think of that? Of course there would be a place where folks could leave messages. I turn Peony toward the bluff, then pause in my saddle to look back. “Thank you, Mr. Jones!”
“Leave him a message too, in case he comes looking for you.”
“I will.”
“Then come back and ride west with me!” he shouts. “I’ll be leaving tomorrow or the day after. Good luck!”
I almost ask if he’s willing to hire two hands. Maybe I can find Jefferson and bring him back here. For the first time in weeks, I feel a spark of hope.
I wait in line for the postmaster, who has all the hurry of a cow chewing cud. His pocket watch gives the back of my throat a slight tingle. I bet he thinks it’s a fine piece, and I’m irritated enough from waiting, waiting, waiting that I’ve half a mind to tell him it’s less than forty percent pure.
When it’s finally my turn, I lean on the counter and say, “Did Jefferson McCauley leave anything for me?”
“I don’t know. Who would the letters be addressed to?”
“Lee Westfall. Or maybe Leah Westfall.”
He peers at me.
“My sister,” I add quickly.
“Let me check.” He steps away from the counter and flips through a box of letters. Every time he lifts one up to get a better look, my heart pounds a little harder. His hands are empty when he returns to counter. “No, sir, Mr. Westfall, I’m sorry, but there’s nothing for you or your sister.”
“Oh.” I was so sure this was the bit of luck I’d been waiting for. “How can I leave a message, in case . . . our friend shows up?”
“You write a letter, pay the postage, and I hold it for him.”
“All right,” I say, fishing in my pocket for pennies. “Do you have pen and paper?”
He’s already reaching for them. “It costs extra.”
Of course it does, but I gladly pay.
It’s been months since I’ve had reason to write anything, more than a year since I’ve used stationery, and my penmanship is a disgrace. Best to keep things simple.
April 20
Dear Jeff,
Hope you are safe well. I am here in Independence waiting for you. I can be found in that clump Grove of Hickory stumps about a mile north of Town. If you don’t come soon I will wait as long as I can. Please leave a Message with the Post Man. Where can we meet? Address to Lee McCauley. I’ll explain later. Sincerely, Yours, Lee
I blow it dry, fold it shut, and hand it back to the postmaster, who has been helping other customers while I wrote. I watch as he drops it in the box, and when Jefferson does not appear instantly to claim it, I head outside.
The general store draws me like a moth to a flame because two pretty, blue, gingham dresses are now displayed in the window. The more I stare at them, the more I consider the possibility that I miss skirts even more than I miss my daddy’s rifle. For some reason, the thought of meeting Jefferson while looking like a boy makes me feel funny inside.
Then I see the prices. Twenty dollars each!
Someday, I’ll be rich. I’ll use my magic to find so much gold in California that I’ll be able to buy all the dresses and rifles a girl could ever want. I’ll buy carrots and sugar cubes for Peony too. White sugar cubes just because I can afford them. And I’ll have a tidy house with an oak bannister and a bright dormer—
“Hiram!” comes a voice.
I flatten myself against the wall like a rat trapped in the pantry corner. My eyes frantically search the crowd. Maybe Jim was wrong about Hiram taking the sea route. He probably turned around and came up the Mississippi in a steamer. Caught up to me when I was down with fever.
“Hey, Hiram, over here!”
The man shouting and waving is no one I recognize. He has a curly beard and an army issue jacket. His gaze leads my attention across the street and—
“Lemuel!”
A little sob escapes my lips. It’s not my uncle. Just someone who shares his name.
But Uncle Hiram will surely be waiting for me in California. It’s a big territory, I tell myself. Big enough to disappear in, maybe. Especially if he’s looking for a girl.
My hands don’t get the message though, and they refuse to stop trembling as I untie Peony from the hitching post. She nuzzles my fingers, looking for a treat.
“Sorry, girl. We don’t have enough money left for—”
“Lee McCauley!”
There’s nothing but jump left in me. I whip my head around, half ready to run, and find Mr. Joyner bearing down on me. His suit is as pristine as always, and I don’t have a single notion as to how he’s not as mud-spackled as the rest of us. “Sir,” I say, surprised. “Glad to see you.” I’m even more surprised that I mean it. It’s good to see a familiar face, even if it’s someone I don’t care for much.
“I can’t believe my good luck. Have you signed on with a wagon company yet?”
“No, sir,” I say, and immediately regret it. I don’t fancy being chased off by his wife again.
“Our hired hands took off. Thought they could make more money with another company. They’ll regret it, though.”
“Oh. I’m real sorry to hear that.” Though not at all surprised. “Must be hard on Mrs. Joyner.”
“It is, thank you. The thing is, now I need a couple hands to help manage the wagon and cattle. I found one fellow already, but I need another.”
“You offering me a job, Mr. Joyner?”
“You’ve proven yourself reliable and of decent moral character.”
“I don’t think your wife agrees, pardon my saying.”
He has the grace to seem confused. “Mrs. Joyner accepts my judgment in these matters. I remember that day, Mr. McCauley, when you helped us load the wagon without asking for pay. I was going to offer you a job the next day, but you disappeared.”
I don’t like the Joyners, and I’ll probably never like the Joyners. But this might be my last chance to travel in a big company. Might be my last chance to head west this season at all.
I’ve done all I can. I came here to meet Jefferson, just as I said I would. I’ve looked for him. I’ve left a message for him. If I wait any longer, it’ll be too late. It’s time for me to give up the search and hope our paths cross somewhere else.
My heart is a stone in my chest as I say, “Board as long as I’m with you. And two dollars and fifty cents a week until we get to California or part ways.”
He hesitates.
“I’ve got another offer,” I say. “Heading out tomorrow.” He doesn’t need to know that my other offer is with a single soul, when I’d rather travel with a big outfit.
“Done!”
He spits into his palm and holds out his hand. I stare at it.
I’ve never entered into a contract before. Not formally, like this. And I still wouldn’t, if he knew I was a girl.
I spit into my own palm, and we clasp hands, shaking firmly.