My stomach is truly empty, and my tears have dried; I won’t be shedding more. I chew on another bit of hardtack as I saddle Peony.

The only way to go is forward. “C’mon,” I say. “We have to keep moving.”

Chapter Ten

The sun is still low enough to brush the hilltops when I see a woman off to the side, collecting eggs from a coop. I keep to the far edge of the road and try not to attract attention.

“Do you want to buy some eggs?” she calls out.

My heart races, but my stomach rumbles. Reluctantly, and maybe eagerly, I turn Peony toward her.

She cradles the eggs in her apron. Her straw-colored hair peeks out of her bonnet, which hasn’t done a thing to keep the freckles from her cheeks. “How many do you want?” she asks.

“I’ll give you a dime for a dozen.” As soon as the words are out, I know I’ve offered too much.

Her eyes narrow. I resist the urge to check the wrapping around my chest or lower my hat brim even more. “Don’t have that many today,” she says, “but I’ll give you a half dozen for three pennies.” Which is a fair price.

After eating so little last night, I need a good meal, and badly. “Do you have a burning pit nearby where I could fry them up?”

“Come on in, and I’ll fry them myself. Split an armful of wood and bring it inside with you.” She nods toward a stack out by a shed. A maul leans against the wall.

I’m not keen to delay. Or go inside a cozy cabin where someone might get too close a look at me. Then again, I can’t afford to turn down a good meal.

I hop down and hitch Peony to the post beside the watering trough. I work hard and fast, one eye on the road. The effort loosens my cramped legs and makes my shoulders sing. When I’m done, I split and stack a little extra, just by way of saying thanks.

I carry my armful of firewood to the house and find the door propped open. A chubby baby, not even a year old, plays in a rail crib. Bacon pops in the frying pan on the box stove. A plate of fried eggs and a steaming bowl of grits wait for me at the table.

The woman reminds me of my mama, with hair that won’t stay neat and a skirt hem that won’t stay clean. Her husband is probably off at work somewhere, maybe panning in a nearby stream or working one of the smaller mines.

“Drop that wood in the basket,” she says when she sees me hovering. “Then have a seat. I made extra since you seemed so determined to work up an appetite.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” I tip my hat to her, which reminds me that I ought to take it off while inside.

Her gazes catches on my ragged hair, and I suddenly feel like a rabbit about to bolt, but the moment passes and she scoops some bacon onto my plate. “Eat up.”

My mouth waters as I sit down and grab a fork.

“It’s early to be on the road,” she says. “Getting cold out there too, though your pretty mare looks to be putting on a nice coat.”

Stopping here was another mistake. She’ll remember Peony for sure, if someone comes asking. “She’s always been a good winter horse,” I say around a mouthful of food. After swallowing, I add, “Heading to Dalton to see family. Guess I’m in a hurry to get there.”

“Oh. Thought for sure you were heading west after gold. Anyway, pace yourself. You won’t make Dalton today, no matter how early you start or how hard you go.”

“No, ma’am.”

I eat so fast it gives me a bellyache. We say a few more general words to each other, mostly about the weather and the roads, all very polite, neither of us volunteering anything personal. I compliment her on her tidy house and her fat baby, which is always safe, and she observes that Peony looks sturdy and strong. After eating every single bite, I rise to clean my plate, just like I would at home, which seems to take her aback.

“Way my mama taught me,” I say.

She laughs. “Well, you tell your mama she raised you right, next time you see her.”

I hesitate a space too long. “Will do, ma’am,” I answer softly.

She opens her mouth to say something else, but changes her mind. She wraps up some extra food in a handkerchief and hands it to me, along with a couple of wrinkled winter apples.

“For your pretty mare,” she says.

“How much do I owe you for all this?” I ask, reaching for my change.

“Three pennies for the eggs.”

“But—”

“You earned it. That’s enough firewood to get me through the rest of the week.”

“Well, all right.”

I can’t get back on the road fast enough. At least my belly is full and my horse is rested.

As the morning passes, I encounter more travelers, and it’s a little easier each time. Most want to stop for a friendly chat, but I try to keep our interactions to a quick howdy. Twice, when the way is clear, I urge Peony into a run.

By midafternoon, I catch up to a woodcutter, whose slow mule cart is loaded with firewood. A farmer rides beside him, his saddlebags filled with bright red crab apples. As with everyone on the road, I search their faces for a spark of familiarity and am relieved when I don’t recognize either one.

“Afternoon, son,” the farmer says.

“Hey, you’re coming from Lumpkin County, right?” the woodcutter says to me. “You hear tell of Lucky Westfall’s murder?”

My words freeze in my mouth. “I . . . No, sir. Haven’t heard a thing.”

The woodcutter turns to the farmer. “Him and his wife was both murdered. Might be the same gang that killed those Indians out by Dalton.”

“Westfall was an Indian?” the farmer asks.

“No, but they was after gold both times.”

I wait for him to add, “The Westfalls had a daughter. She’s missing now.” Instead, the conversation shifts to unsolved murders from a decade ago, and then to a debate about whether it’s really murder to kill an Indian, and then to the price of winter wheat. I keep pace with them, as they’d expect this close to town, but I’m silent the whole while, and my hands grip Peony’s reins so hard I feel them through my gloves.

It’s early evening when we get to Ellijay, which has several crooked house–lined streets to go along with its white clapboard church and two-story tavern, all tossed around a messy intersection. I count five roads coming together at the center of town, but not a single sign indicating which is which. I work up my nerve and ask the woodcutter to point out the Dalton road.

“There’s not another town until Spring Place,” he says. “And that’s a day’s ride. Come on up to the tavern with us and stay the night.”

“No! I mean, I’ve got a place to stay.”

With a shrug, he points the way, and I hurry off.

Peony and I put a few more miles beneath our feet. The country is so thick with winter-stripped branches and deadfall that it’s nearly dark before I find a good place to steer her off the road and into cover. After a cold, damp night and a breakfast of deer jerky, I hustle Peony through the town of Spring Place. The road beyond is even busier, and saying howdy to so many people is terrible on my nerves. I remind myself that lots of traffic makes it easier to blend in.

I’m not far from Dalton when I’m walloped by the presence of gold. My throat constricts as I blink through fuzzy vision. I pull Peony up short, waiting for the sense to turn sweet on me. It takes longer than usual. Maybe it’s because the gold is on the move. Or maybe, in the days since Hiram stole every speck of my family’s fortune, I’ve gotten out of practice.