I’m not sure what he means by “useful to us,” but I nod and say, “If you think it’s best.”

“Which isn’t to say you won’t be busy here when you’re home. I’m sure there’s plenty of gold still to be found.”

He wipes his hands on a dishcloth, then puts them into the pockets of his vest. When he pulls them out, they’re both fisted. He reaches them toward me and says, “I have a gold half eagle in one hand. Which is it?” There’s a twinkle in his eye that reminds me so much of Daddy that my chest hurts.

The coin sings to me clear as spring runoff from his left fist. I point to the right.

He smiles. “You can’t keep secrets from me, Leah.”

I sigh and point to the left.

“That’s my girl.” He opens his fist, and there it is, shining yellow-bright. “Here. You can have it.”

I snatch the coin from his palm.

In the next instant, I almost give it back. Hiram just made me divine gold. He asked me to do it, and I did. Without question. But I can’t say no to five whole dollars right now, even if they come from the devil himself.

A horrid thought occurs to me. “You thinking of taking us west?” I ask. That’s the last thing I need—to go where he intended all along.

“Yes,” he says. “Though not for at least a year. Everyone else can help themselves to the surface and placer gold. I have bigger plans in mind for us, but we’ll need to put some polish on you first.”

I can’t imagine what that means. Maybe I’d rather never know. Unable to make nice a moment more, I rise from the table. “I have chores need doing.”

“And I have some errands to attend to today.” He pulls his silver watch from his breast pocket, flicks it open for a look, then closes it and shoves it back in. “My boy will be here with my things by the end of the week, and I’ll need room in the barn. I want you to sell two of the horses.”

I gape at him, marveling at my luck.

He misunderstands. “I know you’re fond of them,” he says gently. “But I don’t want to pay to feed more horses than we need, and my own are much better stock.”

“Not Peony,” I say.

“I might sell that one later. Abel Topper was asking about her. Thought he might get a deal, since Reuben passed.”

My fingernails dig into my palms.

Maybe I imagine the sympathy that flits across his face. “Take two of the others for now. With so many people heading west, Free Jim can turn them around for a quick profit. I’ve already talked to him. He’s expecting you.”

Uncle Hiram has just unwittingly paid my way to California. “Yes, sir.” My mutinous lips want to smile more than anything, but I won’t let them.

“Bring me whatever you get. It will help pay your tuition.”

“Yes, sir.”

I busy myself with cleaning as he rises from the table, and I refuse to look up as he buckles his holster and dons his overcoat and hat. Go, go, go, I say in my own mind, like a prayer, but Lord Almighty, does he take his sweet time about it. Finally, the door closes, and I allow that grin to go slipping all over my face.

I whip off my apron and hang it by the washtub. I run upstairs to my dormer, where I grab Daddy’s castoff boots from under the bed—the ones I wear for hunting and mucking stalls. I’ve already stuffed extra stockings into the toes, but I won’t put them on for good until after I’ve sold the horses. After lacing my own boots tight, I pull the leaflet from where I hid it under my straw mattress. It’s wrinkled and damp, and the upper right edge has a tear because I’ve handled it so many times. Mama used to say the water of the Atlantic goes on and on—to the edge of the world. I want to see that someday; I surely do. But Jefferson is heading toward Independence, so that’s the way I’ll go too.

I lay the leaflet on the floor. With the toe of my boot, I edge it slightly under the bed. I want it to look natural. Like I left it there on accident. Hopefully, Hiram will find it and think I’m heading to California by sea.

For the last two days I’ve been silently saying good-bye to everything in the house—the box stove, the worn table where we ate so many meals together, the porch where Mama and I used to sit on summer evenings, and especially my bedroom with its beautiful window. The patchwork quilt, though, I’m taking with me. It’s already wound tight in a saddlebag, hidden in the hayloft.

My new-to-me shirt and trousers are in the barn too, along with some supplies and Mama’s sewing shears. It all has to wait a few hours more.

The town square is packed with people when I arrive with the colts, Chestnut and Hemlock, pulling my wagon. There’s no way I’m getting through this noisy crowd, especially without Peony to keep the colts in line, so I steer around behind the courthouse and the general store. It’s muddy back here, but quieter. I throw the brake lever, grab my skirts, and jump from the wagon.

I give Hemlock a pat on the nose, tie the colts’ reins to the store’s back porch rail, and walk through the gloomy alley between courthouse and store, toward the square. Hundreds are gathered on the green—all miners by the wiry, sunless look of them, a few of them slaves. They’re listening to someone lecture from the steps of the courthouse, and as I approach, the speaker’s words ring out: “Why go to California? In that ridge lies more gold than man ever dreamt of. There’s millions in it!”

I almost laugh aloud. It’s Dr. Stephenson’s voice; I know it well. He’s from the mint, and he’s assayed our gold plenty of times.

Everyone in the crowd mutters. Some are nodding. But others, like me, are tickled by the fact Dr. Stephenson considers this a compelling argument. Sure, there’s plenty of gold in Findley Ridge; you don’t need to divine it like me to know that. But it all belongs to the mine, and Dr. Stephenson is wasting his breath. These men are going west, for sure and certain. There, they’ll work just as hard as they do now, and at the end of the day, they’ll have sore backs and blistered hands and coughs that won’t quit—but they’ll get to keep their gold.

Good thing I’m leaving today. Most of these folks will be a few months saving money and selling their belongings, but soon enough, there won’t be anything left of this town. I edge away from the crowd and mount the steps to Free Jim’s store.

“Leah Westfall,” he says as I enter. He stands behind a counter painted bright white. Beside him is a glass jar full of hard candy, a large scale for weighing dry goods, a smaller scale for weighing gold, and—new to my eye—a half-dozen large pickaxes. The shelves behind him are filled with pairs of boots; some new, some not. “What can I help you with?” he asks.