“Jim, I have to ask.” I drop my gaze and shuffle my feet, gathering my words and my pluck. “Did you travel with anyone? I mean . . . Is anybody from Dahlonega here with you?”

“I came alone.”

“Oh.” It feels like I can breathe again. “That’s good.”

“Your uncle Hiram left a few weeks after you did,” he adds gently, “when it was clear you’d run off.”

My gaze darts around the busy street, even as I grab for Peony’s reins. “Is he here? Did he—”

“Hiram sold the Westfall land to Mr. Gilmore and went to catch a boat in Charleston. He’s sailing to California by way of Panama.”

My knees go watery with relief, and I lean against Peony for support.

“He sent some men west after you, just in case. But no one caught even a hint of you.” His eyes twinkle. “They were looking for a young lady, after all.”

My plan worked. I can hardly believe it.

“Well, except that good-for-nothing Abel Topper,” he continues. “He rode back into town more than a week after you left, insisting he chanced upon your mare. By then it was too late; you were too far ahead.”

“Where’s Topper now?”

“He left for California with your uncle, once it was clear no one would hire him for the railroad.” In a dropped voice he adds, “They aim to reach the gold fields ahead of you.”

I nod. I’ve always known I’ll have to face Hiram again someday. “At least I won’t see him on the trail. Is anyone still looking for me? Did he post a reward or something?”

“Not as far as I know.”

But there’s an agitation about him. He opens his mouth to say something, closes it. He runs a hand through his tight beard, clears his throat, tries again. Finally, he asks: “Did Hiram kill Reuben and Elizabeth?”

I can hardly force the word past the lump in my throat. “Yes.”

He nods, as if he’d already worked out the answer. “I expected he’d do something foolish someday.”

“Why?” Tears sting my eyes, and my hands clench so hard that my nails dig into my palms. “What are you talking about? I don’t understand!”

Free Jim settles a giant hand on my shoulder and clasps it. “Do you have a place to stay?”

“Sure,” I lie. I can’t bring myself to tell him I lost most of his money and all of his shirts.

“I have some things to do. Meet me tomorrow at the Hawthorn Inn. It’s two blocks north of the square. Noon. We’ll talk.”

“Okay.” I almost beg him not to go. I’m not ready to be alone again.

He tips his hat to me. “Until tomorrow, then.”

I watch his back as he walks away, and I’m unhitching Peony before I realize I forgot to ask him about Jefferson.

Noon tomorrow can’t come soon enough. I spend the next hours meandering through town, searching the face of every stranger, hoping to find Jefferson, worrying I’ll run into the brothers instead. Evening falls, and I head out of town as the clouds break open, a coral sunset lighting up the western horizon.

The first empty spot suitable for camping is nearly a mile from the town proper. Tree stumps are everywhere, jutting out of the muddy ground like grave markers. But there are no trees; everything has been chopped down for firewood and wagons. I lie down in the open beneath the stars, and I let the sound of chirruping crickets and the scent of a hundred campfires lull me to sleep.

The next morning I make a circuit of all the groups forming up to head west. There are at least a dozen companies, each larger and more sprawling than the last.

I pass a woman bent over an honest-to-goodness box stove, and something about her makes me pause. She turns to grab a wooden ladle, and I glimpse her face. It’s Mrs. Joyner!

Somehow, she convinced someone to unload that stove for her. Certainly not Mr. Joyner, who I’ve never seen carry anything heavier than a cigar. I raise my hand to wave, surprised at how glad I am to see her safely arrived, but I flash back to her prim mouth and hard eyes as she gave me the good riddance. I let my hand drop and slink away before she can spot me. That’s one wagon train where I won’t be welcome.

I resume my search for Jefferson. Time and again I see someone with his lanky form and dark hair, but then he turns around, or moves in a way that Jefferson would never move, or calls out in a voice I’ve never heard.

Finally, the sun is high enough that I head into town for my meeting with Free Jim. The Hawthorn Inn is easy to find, though calling it an “inn” is generous and optimistic. It’s little more than a giant shack, with wax-paper windows, sleeping cubbies curtained off with sheets, and a huge, canvas awning pretending to be the roof of a busy dining area.

Free Jim is already sitting at one of the long benches, a mug before him on the table. Though the inn is crowded, there’s a bubble of space around him, so I climb over and plunk down beside him.

“I ordered us up some fried catfish,” he says by way of greeting. “Hope you don’t mind.”

My mouth waters. “Thanks, Free Jim!”

“It’s just Jim now.”

I peer at his profile. “But Missouri is a slave state. It would be better if—”

“Do you have to go around introducing yourself as ‘Free Lee’?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then why should I?”

Because I couldn’t stand it if something happened to him, but I take his point.

A serving girl not much older than me sweeps by and plops our plates down before us.

“Eat up,” Jim says.

The fish is a bit rubbery, like it sat out a day or two before getting cooked, but I can’t afford to turn down a meal. I’m halfway through when Jim says, “What are your plans?”

I swallow my mouthful. “Find Jefferson. He said he’d meet me here. Then we’ll figure out how to get to California.”

He nods. “Some folks thought the two of you ran off together.”

“I wish we had.” If Jefferson had been around, those brothers wouldn’t have dared rob me. Then again, maybe his Cherokee blood would have made him a tempting target. The thought turns my stomach. “Have you seen him? He left a few days before I did, so I really thought he’d be here by now.”

“I haven’t, no.” At the look on my face, he adds, “Sorry. Some companies have left already, even though the grass isn’t growing in yet.”