“If you don’t like it, we got an extra,” Henry says, reaching into his own bag. “It didn’t seem right for you, but . . .”

He retrieves a lavender calico dress, shakes it out, and holds it up against his chest.

“That’s big enough to fit you,” I say. “No, I like this one just fine. More than fine.”

He grins and folds the other dress back up.

“Two boughten dresses,” I say, marveling. Seems like an overindulgence to me.

“The seamstress gave us a deal,” Henry says. “It would appear there are far more dresses than women in the state at the moment, one being easier to ship west, and the other less willing. But we might be able to trade it for something later.”

“Let’s get all this unloaded,” Jefferson says. He wears an odd expression, like he’s trying to figure something out.

“We ought to find a dry spot for all that fresh ammo you brought,” Major Craven says. “And we need to build a henhouse before those chickens get any bigger.”

“And I guess I need to learn how to work a stove,” Becky says.

Everyone stares at her. It’s easy to forget she didn’t cook a day in her life before hitting the trail, at which point she only cooked over an open fire. Becky gives us a sheepish shrug. “Sukey, my slave in Chattanooga, always managed the stoves.”

I can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of my chest. It’s almost too ridiculous for words, that a grown woman could be so helpless.

But Hampton is frowning. “Don’t look at me to help you with it.”

“I . . . Of course not,” Becky stammers.

The Major steps forward, rubbing his beard. “I’ve been around a woodstove or two,” he says to Becky, “and I reckon you and I, we can figure this out together. If you don’t mind me being in the way.”

She smiles at him. “Thank you, sir.”

Everyone helps unload and find places to store everything. Most of it goes into the lean-tos, a bit in our saddlebags. Barrels and sacks of foodstuffs remain in the cart, off the ground, which is rolled under a huge oak and covered in canvas.

Jefferson is the only one who goes about the work with a sour face. His look is so dark, his motions so brusque and hurried, that I finally sidle up to him and ask, “Jeff?”

“See all this stuff?” he says with a sweep of his hand. “It looks like we’re rich already, and us only being here a couple of weeks.”

Understanding is like a click in my brain. “Oh.”

“People are going to start talking, no doubt about it. They’ll talk about how prosperous Glory, California, is. Miners will come from all over to stake claims nearby. Everyone will hear about the group of folks, women and children among them, with a half Indian and a Negro besides. And when they do—”

“My uncle will come to fetch me.”

He nods. “If we don’t get robbed first.”

I glance over toward the cart. Major Craven is using his crutch to shift some stones aside and pound out a flat area for the new box stove, his amputated leg swaying as he works. It’s a marvelous feat of balance. “I can do more with one leg than most men can do with two,” he always says.

“People will recognize descriptions of the Major, too,” I say. “I couldn’t stand it if something happened to any of them.”

“I couldn’t stand it if something happened to you,” he says, his dark eyes suddenly intense on me. We stand a moment in silence, staring at each other. He has the finest face I’ve ever seen, with his high cheekbones and serious eyes and a wide mouth that always has a gentle curve, all surrounded by the thickest, shiniest black hair that a girl could run her fingers through.

I swallow hard. “So, what do we do?”

“Let’s talk it out with everyone at supper tonight.”

We sit around the campfire, which isn’t as huge and roaring as usual on account of the fact that the Major and Becky have gotten the stove fired up and hotter than blazes. They made a huge pot of rabbit stew, thanks to Martin’s hunting success, which is a bit watery, but still delicious with the fresh onions, turnips, potatoes, and carrots that the college men brought back.

Beside me, Jasper is showing Olive how to work stitches into the rabbit’s untanned hide. “Rabbit skin is thinner and more delicate than human skin,” Jasper says. “So once you’ve gotten the hang of it, we’ll move on to something else. Maybe a deer, or better yet a boar.”

Across from me, Jefferson is cleaning his rifle, but he steals glances through the wavering firelight, which I pretend not to notice.

Everyone else spoons up their stew, enjoying the rest and silence after a hard day’s work.

Finally, as Becky starts gathering dishes, I clear my throat. “Jefferson and me, we think we should set a double watch tonight,” I say.

“And every night,” Jefferson adds.

“Not a bad idea,” the Major says, bouncing the Joyner baby on his knee. “Someone on the hill near the lean-tos and the cart, another at the corral.”

“Still worried about claim jumpers?” Becky asks. “We have some fine neighbors now. Well, maybe not fine, but they’re perfectly friendly.”

“People are going to start talking, friendly or not,” I say. “Once they see our fancy new box stove and those chickens and that cart full of goods, they’ll figure we’re doing well. Maybe too well.”

“I’m big now,” Andy says, all seriousness. “I can stand watch.”

Henry Meek rubs at his scant beard. “We should hide as many of our supplies as possible.”

“At least we don’t have to worry about Indians stealing our things,” Becky says. “I haven’t seen a single Indian since we left Mormon Island.”

Jefferson glares at her, and I don’t blame him for being angry. People pretend he’s a white man when it suits them, erasing part of who he is. Besides, Becky shouldn’t assume danger on that front, since we’ve had nothing but fair dealings with Indians. I guess it’s hard to get past your notions about people sometimes, even when your own experience tells you otherwise.

“Hopefully,” Jeff says, “the fact that we’ve seen so few Indians means we’re not trespassing on their territory.”

“They have no territory,” Becky says.