“Well, California is a big place.” He sounds as unconvinced as I am.

“So I keep telling myself.”

“We’ll deal with Hiram Westfall when we have to,” Jefferson says.

A smile slips onto my face. He said “we.”

Less than a stone’s throw away, a striped tawny squirrel skitters through the blanket of crunchy oak leaves, his cheeks puffed out with acorns, and I marvel at how golden everything is in this country—the squirrels, the fat marmots who spied on us as we crossed the Sierra Nevada, the wind-rippled velvet of these grassy hills.

Softly, Jefferson says, “You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”

My heart stampedes in my chest.

“Did you know that sometimes they turn dark gold? Like the last edge of a sunset. I think it happens when you’re sensing something.”

“I . . . No, I didn’t know that.”

His eyes are so close, and the world disappears. There’s just Jefferson and his familiar, perfect face and his knowing gaze and the way he’s leaning forward as if to kiss me. My whole body thrums, as though I’m in a wash of glittering gold.

After a hesitation as quick as a blink, he brushes his lips across my cheek. It’s brilliant and breathtaking and not nearly enough.

He steps back quickly. “Um, well, I guess you have to decide if you want to tell anyone else your secret. But we have some good people with us, and I think you might be surprised.”

“Maybe so.”

“And Lee?” His eyes dance. “You are going to be so rich.”

On October 10, we reach Sutter’s Fort. It’s not as big as Fort Laramie, but it’s a lot busier. Walls form a huge square. They’re almost twenty feet high, but an even taller building peeks out from behind them, capped by a waving American flag. Three little girls play with corn-husk dolls just outside the entrance, and men and women kneel over cook fires. Laundry flaps in the breeze between wagons, and dogs run from camp to camp, begging for scraps.

Guns thunder constantly—men discharging their rifles to be let inside. As we approach, I see signs of wear on the fort itself: cracked adobe, a tilting well cover, gates that don’t quite hang straight.

“Any sign of Frank Dilley?” Jefferson asks as we dismount.

“None,” I reply, scanning the crowd. “It wouldn’t make me sad to never see him again.”

“Agreed,” says Mr. Hoffman, walking beside the wagon. “Though I want him to see me. I want him to know we made it.” Then, in a softer voice, “Most of us, anyway.”

We park the wagon outside the walls and gather together. “I’ll stay with the children,” Mrs. Hoffman says. “You all go inside and figure out this claim business.” Luther and Martin agree to help Mrs. Hoffman keep an eye on things, and the rest of us head up the slope toward the fort.

We haven’t gone three steps before a voice rings out. “That’s my horse!”

It’s like being socked in the gut. My lungs refuse to draw breath, and my hands holding the rifle begin to tremble.

Slowly, inevitably, I turn.

Uncle Hiram stands straight and tall and impeccably groomed, wearing a shiny top hat and a black suit with silver buttons. Abel Topper stands at his right shoulder, a tall Negro at his left. Hiram took the sea route and arrived ahead of me, just like Jim said. Wouldn’t surprise me one bit to learn he’s been right here at Sutter’s Fort for weeks, charming everyone in sight, knowing I’d show up eventually. By now, the entire territory of California probably thinks him a fine, upstanding gentleman.

I’ve been wondering what I’d do when I saw him again. Run like the wind? Shoot? Burst into tears?

Instead I say, cool as ice, “Hello, Uncle Hiram.”

That name gets everyone’s attention. Becky moves to stand beside me. Jefferson calmly begins loading his rifle. For a moment, the only sound is that of a ramrod sliding down a barrel.

My uncle puts up his hands. “Now, now, I don’t want any trouble. But that’s my girl you’ve got there, and I’ve come a long way to fetch her, so I’ll be taking her back now.”

“No, sir,” says Henry Meek, stepping forward. His thumbs are cocked in his vest pockets like he’s a man who knows his business.

“You’ve no legal claim here in California,” Tom adds. “And I’d be happy to see that adjudicated in the nearest court.”

Uncle Hiram’s answering grin holds no humor. “Maybe we’ll solve this matter outside of court.”

Mr. Hoffman steps up, crossing his arms. “Try it,” he says. My uncle suddenly doesn’t seem so large.

“It would be a strategic error,” Major Craven adds.

Jefferson sets the rear trigger.

We stare one another down: Hiram and his two men, me and my traveling companions. A few passersby stop to see what the fuss is about.

Becky is the one to break the silence. “You see, Mr. Westfall, sir,” she says, bobbing her unnamed daughter in her arms. “Leah is ours now.”

Hiram deliberates, his eyes roving our small company, resting for the space of a moment on every single face. “I see,” he drawls, slow and Southern and altogether false. “You realize, don’t you, that you’re harboring a runaway? She belongs with her family.”

Becky laughs. “I knew she was a runaway the first time I laid eyes on her! But I’ll thank you to leave us alone, regardless.”

“She’s with her family now,” Jasper amends.

Hiram holds my gaze, and I hold his right back. It gives me an ache to see him; he’s so like my daddy, except straight and strong and healthy. But he’s half the man my daddy was. Less than half.

He seems to come to a decision, and his face darkens with determination. At last, he tips his hat to me. “I’ll be seeing you again, my Leah. Very soon.”

He means to scare me, but my breathing is just fine, thank you, and the hands on my rifle are steady enough to take him at two hundred paces. “For sure and certain,” I reply.

Uncle Hiram turns his back and strides off, the other two men at his heels. He still wants what I can do, and he won’t stop trying to get it. Mama and Daddy never saw him coming, but my new family knows what kind of man he is. We’ll be ready.

I’m about to say thank you, and maybe hug someone, but everyone has already turned away like my uncle isn’t worth another moment’s attention.

“I still think you should call her Therese,” Olive says to her mother as we resume our walk to the fort. It’s a game everyone has been playing, trying to find a name for the Joyner baby.

“Or Lee,” Andy says, with a shy glance at me.

“Or California!” Hampton says. “You can call her Cali for short.”

“Elizabeth is a fine name,” I put in. “It was my mother’s name.”

We continue to throw names out until we reach the gates, where we pause a moment.

Jefferson drapes an arm across my shoulders. “We made it,” he says, gazing up at the walls. “We actually made it.”

I’m smiling, fit to burst. Feeling richer than a king, I say, “Let’s go find us some gold.”