I hardly dare to breathe as I strain my ears. He’s unsaddling Blackwind, far as I can tell. Now he’s removing the bridle. Blackwind stomps, and Hiram chuckles. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, boy?” he says. “Fine. A rubdown it is.”

No, no, no.

Peony snorts and tosses her head. My uncle’s footsteps approach. “Hullo, girl,” he says.

Don’t look down, don’t look down.

Above me, a thick arm in a black woolen sleeve snakes out. Peony allows her muzzle to be rubbed, though her nostrils remain flared. “You’ll get used to us, girl,” Hiram says. “So will your mistress. I promise.”

The arm disappears. Footsteps retreat. I wait, quiet as a mouse, my heart in my throat, as he rubs down his gelding. Is it twenty minutes? An hour?

Finally, finally, he sets the curry brush back on the shelf and closes Blackwind’s stall. The barn doors shut behind him, leaving me in safe, blessed gloom, and I loose a single sob of relief.

I stay frozen, waiting for him to get out of earshot. When I can stand it no more, I spring to my feet and toss Peony’s blanket over her back, followed by the saddlebags and saddle. As I buckle on the rifle holster, I whisper, “We have to move fast and quiet, girl. Won’t be more than an hour before he starts to wonder why I’m not home yet.” And sooner or later, he’ll figure out what the missing wagon means.

She bears the saddle without complaint, and I heap praise on her and kiss her nose. After one last tug on her girth strap, I take her reins and pull her from the stall. Gradually, quietly, I crack open the barn door and peer outside. A light snow is beginning to fall. Hiram’s footprints, crisp in the fresh snow, lead toward the house.

The barn door isn’t visible from anywhere in the house except the back porch, so I probably have a few minutes to get out, close the door, and get into the cover of the woods. I’m about to yank her forward when I get an idea.

Blackwind’s saddle hangs over the side of one of the empty stalls. I grab my knife from the belt at my waist and saw through the girth strap. It takes longer than I care for, but unless Hiram’s a dab at bareback riding, it’ll be worth it.

I grab Peony’s nose strap and lead her from the barn. The door squeals when I close it behind us. I swing up onto her back. She dances a little, but I dare to hope it’s with anticipation rather than nervousness over the unfamiliar saddle. I check that Daddy’s Hawken rifle is steady in its holster, and give her flanks a light kick. She lurches forward, eager to go, but I keep her at a quiet, patient walk.

The world is smothered in soft white. Fresh flakes continue to drift down, and I twist in the saddle to make sure they’re filling Peony’s tracks. No birds call, no rodents rustle in the barren underbrush, no wind whistles through the bare branches. The winter-still world holds its breath, waiting for me to give myself away with a sound.

I nose Peony behind the barn and into the woods. I bend over her neck to avoid low branches as we twist through the maze of chestnut and red oak and digger pine. The trees break wide too soon, revealing the white ribbon of open road. I pull Peony up short.

If I take the road, I risk being seen by someone who knows me. If I keep to the thick woods, I can’t go fast enough to outrun Hiram.

With a kick and a “Hi-yah!” I urge my horse into a gallop. I refuse to look back.

Chapter Nine

Peony and I fly down the road. The wind sweeps my hat from my head so that it flaps like a sail at my back, the chin strap strangling my neck. The icy air on my face makes the corners of my eyes tear. Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m leaving home forever, as fast as I possibly can.

We reach the fork, and Peony slows, sides heaving. She noses toward the familiar route into Dahlonega. I steer her left, on to Ellijay Road, but she tosses her head and veers right again. “Please don’t fight me, girl. Not today.” When she feels the reins against her neck a second time, she gives in.

I resist the urge to spur her back into a gallop. Though she pulls our wagon almost every day, I haven’t been running her regularly. I need to take care of her if she’s to stay sound all the way to California.

But this is precious, precious time; the only part of my journey when I can put distance between myself and Hiram before he realizes I’ve run away. Which means I’ll have to run Peony again once she cools off. I’ll have to.

The most dangerous part of the journey is close to home.

“We might make Prince Edward by dark if we hurry,” I explain, my voice sounding hollow and lonely in the empty winter woods. “Daddy’s been there.”

My plan is simple: stay on the big road until I get to an even bigger road, and head off into the woods if I see someone familiar. If I’m lucky—very lucky—the gathering at the courthouse will last awhile, leaving the road empty.

An hour passes. I urge Peony into a gallop again. This time, she pulls up even sooner, and I dismount to walk beside her for a spell, giving her a chance to rest.

I feel smaller when I’m not on Peony’s back. Smaller, lonelier, colder. The woods loom to either side, dotted with adjoining paths that all look the same—gloomy tunnels through leafless forest, barely wider than deer trails. What if I’ve missed an important turn? I hope I’m going in the right direction.

Any direction is better than back, I tell myself firmly. Soon enough, with the sun low and me still not home, Hiram will realize I’m gone. He might be searching already. I did my best to misdirect him toward the sea route, but what if it wasn’t enough? There could be men on the road right now, pattyrollers or borrowed miners, coming to ride me down. Maybe they’ll ambush me, bursting out of one of these silent, gloomy trails.

I can’t help myself; I swing back into Peony’s saddle and urge her forward. She tosses her head in protest. “It’s just a few days of hard travel. Once we’re out of Georgia, we can slow down a little.” I reach down and pat her neck. Even in the fading light, she’s a beautiful animal, with a shimmery golden coat and a flaxen mane and tail.

“Peony,” I say, pulling her up and sliding off again. “We’ve got a problem.”

Everyone for miles knows “Lucky’s palomino.” She’s even more recognizable than I am, with a coat bright enough to shine in the twilit gloom. I whip off my gloves and stash them in my pocket. With my bare hands, I shove aside some slushy snow and scoop up the mud beneath it. When I lift it toward Peony’s neck, she twists her head away.