UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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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 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.
“For a family of three, like yours. But even one person needs at least two hundred.” He shakes his head. “There’s got to be a different way.”
I know from his tone, as surely as I know Mama’s locket doesn’t contain a lick of brass, that Jefferson wants to go west more than anything. “You’re going to run away,” I say.
“Maybe. I don’t know.” He scuffs his bare foot against the step, sending a wave of sludge over the edge. “I could take the sorrel mare. Hunt my way there. Or work for somebody else, taking care of their stock. It’s just that . . . It’s just . . .”
“Jeff?” I peer close to try to figure him. He has a wide mouth that jumps into a smile faster than lightning. But there’s nothing of smiling on his face right now.
“Remember the year the creek dried up, and we caught fifty tadpoles in the stagnant pool?” he says softly.
“Sure,” I say, though I have no idea why he’d bring it up. “I remember you dropping a handful down my blouse.”
“And I remember you screaming like a baby.”
I punch him in the shoulder.
He jerks backward, staring at me in mock disapproval. “Your punches didn’t used to hurt so much.”
“I like to get better at things.”
His gaze drifts far away. Rubbing absently at his shoulder, he says, “You’re my best friend, Lee.”
“I know.”
“We’re too old for school. I only come to see you.”
“I know.”
All at once he turns toward me and grasps my mittened hands in his bare ones. “Come west with me,” he blurts.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
“Marry me. Or . . . I mean . . . We could tell people we’re married. Brother and sister, maybe! Whatever you want. But you’re like me. With your daddy sick, I know it’s really you working that claim, same way I work Da’s. I know it’s your own two hands as built that place up.” His grip on my hands is so tight it’s almost unbearable. “This is our chance to make our own way. It’s only right that—Why are you shaking your head?”
His words brought a stab of hope so pure and quick it was like a spur in the side. But now I’ve a sorrow behind my eyes that wants to burst out, hot and wet. Jefferson is partly right: I’m the one who makes our claim work. He just doesn’t know how much.
“Leah?”
I sigh. “Here’s where you and I are different. I love my mama and daddy. I can’t leave them. And yes, it’s my claim as much as anyone’s. I’m proud of it. I can’t leave it neither.”
He releases my hands. Together, we look out over the snow-dusted yard to find the others staring at us. They saw us holding hands, for sure and certain. But we ignore them. We’re used to ignoring them.
“You might not have a choice,” he says. “If your daddy wants to go to California—”
That stab of hope again. “Mama will convince him not to. He’s too sick.”
“But if you go—”
The school bell peals, calling us inside.
“We’ll talk later,” I say, more than a little glad to let the subject go. I’ve lots of thinking to do. In fact, I do so much thinking during the next hours that I’m useless for helping the little ones with their sums, and when Mr. Anders calls on me to recite the presidents, I mix up Madison and Monroe.
I drive home as soon as school lets out, not bothering to say bye to Jefferson, though I wave from a distance. I need to get away, and fast, find some open air for laying out all my thoughts about California and gold and going west, not to mention the stunning and undeniable fact that Jefferson just asked me to marry him.
As offers go, it’s not the kind a girl dreams about while fingering the linens from her hope chest. I’m not even sure he meant it, the way he stumbled over it so badly.
I’ve thought about marriage—of course I have—but no one seems to have taken a shine to me. It’s no secret I spend my days squatting in the creek bed or hefting a pickax or mucking the barn, that I have an eagle eye and a steady shot that brings in more game than Daddy ever did, even during his good spells. I might be forgiven my wild ways if I was handsome, but I’m not. My eyes are nice enough, as much gold as brown, just like Mama’s. But I have a way of looking at people that makes them prickly, or so Jefferson says, and he always says it with a grin, like it’s a compliment.
One time only did I mourn to Daddy about my lack of prospects. He just shrugged and said “Strong chin, strong heart,” then he kissed me quick on the forehead. I never complained again. My daddy knows my worth.
I suppose Jefferson does too, and my heart hurts to think of him leaving and me staying. But the truth is I’ve never thought of him in a marrying kind of way. And with an awful proposal like that, I don’t know that Jefferson’s too keen on the idea either.
A gunshot cracks through the hills, tiny and miles distant. A minute later, it’s followed by a second shot. Someone must be out hunting. I wish them luck.
By the time my wagon comes in view of the icy creek and the faint track that winds through the bare oaks toward home, I decide there’s no help for it but to talk everything out with Mama and Daddy. We share secrets among ourselves, maybe, but we have none from one another.
Peony tosses her head, as if sensing my thoughts. No, it’s the surrounding woods that have put a twitch in her. They are too silent, too still.
“Everything’s fine, girl,” I say, and my voice echoes back hollowly.
As the leafless trees open up to reveal our sprawling homestead, right when I yell “Haw!” to round Peony toward the barn, something catches my eye.
A man’s boot. Worn and wrinkled and all alone, toppled into a snowbank against the porch.
“Daddy?” I whisper, frozen for the space of two heartbeats.
I leap from the bench, and my skirt catches on the wheel spoke, but I rip right through and sprint toward the house. I don’t get far before I fall to my knees, bent over and gasping.
Because Daddy lies on his back across the porch steps, legs spread-eagled, bootless. Crimson pools beneath his head and drips down the steps—tiny rapids of blood. His eyes are wide to the sky, and just above them, like a third eye in a brow paler than snow, is a dark bullet hole.
“Mama!” I yell, and then I yell it again. I can’t take my eyes off Daddy’s face. He seems so surprised. So alive, except for that unblinking stare.
What should I do? Drag him away before he ruins the porch, maybe. Or put his boots back on. Why did Daddy go outside without his boots?
My hands shake with the need to do something. To fix something. My eyes search the steps, the porch, the wide-open doorway, but I can only find the one boot, shoved into the snowbank. “Mama? Where are Daddy’s boots?” My voice is shrill in the winter air, almost a scream.
I use the porch railing to pull myself to my feet. If I can just find that blasted boot, everything will be fine. Why isn’t Mama answering?
The world shifts, and I stumble hard against the railing.
Two gunshots. I heard two. “Mama,” I whisper.
I start running. Through the drawing room, the bedroom, the kitchen still messy from supper. Upstairs to the dormer room where I sleep, then back down again. Sunshine has broken through the clouds, streaming light through our windows. Mama’s touches of love are everywhere—the blue calico curtains of my bedroom, the pine boughs winding our otherwise plain banister, the wrapping-paper flowers stained yellow with wild mustard, poking from the vase on our mantel. Yesterday’s venison stew, still warm on the box stove.
But Mama is nowhere to be found, and the place feels so bare it’s like an ache in my soul.
Still calling for her, I race outside and bang on the outhouse. I search the barn. I splash through our tiny stream and sprint into the peach orchard.
Under the trees, I stop short. The world is so empty and quiet. Too quiet, as if even the trees need to be hushed and sad for a spell. Which is just as well; I must stop panicking and start thinking. You’re a smart girl, Lee, Daddy always says, especially when I struggle with algebra. You can figure this.
Winter chill works its way through my boots, which aren’t quite dry from yesterday’s hunt, and I wrap my arms around myself against the cold and the dread. In the distance, Peony snorts at something. I left the poor girl hitched to the wagon. She’ll have to keep.
I close my eyes and concentrate, turning in place like a compass.
Gold sings to me from north of the orchard, from the vein that Daddy and I started working before the snow hit. Fainter, as if very small or from very far away, comes the one I’m looking for: a hymn of purity, a lump of sweetness in my throat. A nugget, maybe, but I’m hoping it’s Mama’s locket.
It’s in the direction of the barn. I’ve already been to the barn. What did I miss?
That lump of sweetness pulls me back through the bare peach trees, through the icy brook. The sensation strengthens as I approach. It’s not coming from inside the barn but behind it. Beyond the henhouse and near the woodpile.
The ground outside the henhouse is littered with down; something panicked the poor birds bad enough to send their feathers through the breathing holes. The sweetness in my throat turns sour. I force myself to walk the remaining steps.
I find her there, sitting with her back against the woodpile, legs outstretched, her skirt ridden up enough that a sliver of gray stocking shows above her boots. The locket that led me to her rests above her heart, sparkling in the sunshine. Below, her waist is soaked in blood. She’s been gut-shot.
Her eyes flutter as I approach, and she lifts one hand in my direction. “Leah,” she whispers. “My beautiful girl.”
I rush forward and grab her hand. “I’ll get Doc,” I say. “Just hold tight.” I try to pull away, but her grip is strong, though her gaze is so weak it can’t seem to alight on anything for more than the space of a butterfly’s touch.
“My strong girl. Strong, perfect . . .”
“Who did this to you?” Tears burn my eyes.
Her head lolls toward me, as if moving her neck can force her gaze in the direction her eyes cannot. “Trust someone. Not good to be as alone as we’ve been. Your daddy and I were wrong. . . .” Her words are coming slower and quieter.
“Mama?”
“Run, Lee. Go . . .”
Her chin hits her chest, and she says no more.