“I see.”

“I saw right through them, of course, and they resented a man who could so easily smash their pretensions.”

“I’m sure.” I’ve been wandering the staging area for weeks, so I know full well that no one wants to take on an overloaded wagon.

“We finally found a small company of God-fearing men,” he continues. “Mostly from Missouri, with a few other families besides. The group is led by an excellent man, Major Wally Craven, a veteran of the Black Hawk War, who knows how to deal with Indians.”

We near the camp, which is a tight bundle of wagons and campfires and small tents. He says, “I’m off to tell Major Craven the news. He’s eager to depart.”

“What should I do?”

“Familiarize yourself with the company and then come find my wagon. It’s the big one.”

“I remember your wagon.”

“I’ve hired one other young man. He came west with a German family from Ohio. They’re part of our company too, though he works for me now. He’s congenial and hardworking, so don’t you worry about his deficiencies.”

I have no idea what he means by “deficiencies,” and I’m making up my mind whether it would be impolite to ask when he says, “Speak of the devil, and he appears.”

He points to a rider coming across the field. “There’s the fellow now. Go on, introduce yourself and ask him to perambulate the camp and familiarize you with our traveling compatriots, as well as the procedures we’ve agreed to follow. I’ll meet you at the wagon later.”

Mr. Joyner leaves my side, and the distant rider approaches. Two dogs dash forward to greet me, tails wagging. One is the Joyners’ floppy-eared hound dog, my old friend Coney.

The other is Nugget.

I snap the reins, and Peony surges forward. “Jefferson!” I shout.

“Hello!” he shouts back, pulling up on the sorrel mare. “You must be the new fellow. . . . Lee?”

I rein in Peony so that we’re sitting in our saddles face-to-face. Tears brim in my eyes, but I don’t care. If we weren’t mounted up, I’d throw my arms around him right in front of everybody.

He’s taller now. Even leaner than before, with sun-darkened skin and a hard line to his jaw that makes him seem years older. He’s staring at my face, not smiling, not talking. His near-black eyes are wide with something I don’t understand.

His gloved hand comes up and cups my chin. His thumb is so near my lips I could almost kiss it. “Leah,” he whispers at last.

“Hello, Jeff,” I whisper back.

He peers closer, his hand dropping away. “What happened to your hair?”

“I cut it.”

“Why on earth would . . . Oh.”

“I’d appreciate it if you kept my secret.”

He frowns. “I don’t see how anyone with half a mind would mistake you for a boy.”

“It’s worked so far. I’m strong and I work hard and I ride well.”

“Also, you can spit farther than any boy I know.”

“And shoot straighter!”

He nods solemnly. “And opine louder.”

I’m grinning big enough to burst. “Sure is good to see you, Jeff. I was afraid you’d left Independence already. Worse afraid you didn’t make it here at all.”

Nugget nuzzles my boot in its stirrup. Jefferson is wearing boots too, now. They’re years old if they’re a day, but they’re probably brand-new to him. “Good to see you too, girl,” I tell Nugget, still staring at Jeff’s boots.

My skin buzzes as he looks me over, from head to toe and back again. In a dropped voice, he says, “I have a secret too.”

“Oh?” I lean closer.

“Been going by my mother’s name—Kingfisher—since I crossed the river.”

“Oh.” It makes me sad, though I’m not sure why. “Jefferson Kingfisher,” I say, trying it out. “How come?”

A shadow passes over his face. “I don’t want anything to do with my old man.”

“Can’t say I blame you.”

By silent agreement, we’ve drifted to the edge of camp, away from prying ears. He says, “My mother’s people came out this way, you know. The Cherokee crossed the border here, went up to St. Louis to trade. Figure if someone hears my name, and they know her, word might get back.”

I open my mouth to remind him that it was more than ten years ago, but the look on his face makes me say, “Good thinking. Any luck?”

“Not yet.”

“I’m riding under a different name too. I put this on”—I indicate my clothes with a gesture of my hand—“and when people asked my name, I didn’t want to say Westfall. So . . . I said McCauley.”

“You gave them my name!”

“I remember someone saying we ought to get married.” I say it like it’s a joke, but I watch him carefully for his response.

His cheek twitches. “I . . . Well . . .”

I blurt, “My uncle killed my folks.”

His mouth drops open, and there’s something gratifying about the horror on his face. He collects himself quickly and says, “You’re sure it was him?”

“Sure as the sunrise in the east.” I can’t stop staring at him. He’s so comforting, so familiar. But he’s different too, in ways that give my chest an ache. “Hiram showed up right after you left,” I tell him. “He was covered in gold dust. Couldn’t stop talking about how the place was all his now. How I was all his now.”

“That’s . . . I’m so sorry, Lee. Why’d he do such a thing?” He scans the horizon, as if expecting him to appear. “Where is he now? And where’s your rifle? You ought to keep it handy. I’ll keep mine loaded as we ride—”

“Jeff, can we talk about that a little later, maybe?”

He gives me a dark look. “Sure. Whatever you want.”

I feel his gaze on me as we aim our mounts back into camp and weave them through the cluster of wagons. Come departure day, they’ll leave one by one, forming a neat and lovely line. I’ve seen it happen a dozen times.

“Anyway, I had to get away,” I whisper. “Become someone else. Yours was the first name that came to mind.”

“Well, you can have it, Lee McCauley. I don’t need it anymore.”