There was no jewelweed yet—the spring too fresh for that—so I contented myself with balsam for the time being, happy in the knowledge that there was mustard, powdered and waiting in a tin in our kitchen. And cinnamon, too, though not much of it. Vinegar and onions. And mud, of course, whenever I wanted to make it. Honey, soon, if I could manage to steal it from a thousand bees. Maybe the next time the Lockharts went to market for coffee and salt they could ask for ginger, too, though I would have to find a way to pay for it.

I was filled with such thoughts as I ducked back out from under the drooping branches of the balsam tree, picked up the pail of milk, and turned toward the Petersons’.

And realized that I was not alone.

—

On the path ahead of me was a creature I’d never seen before, his paws braced, head low, ears pricked.

At first I thought coyote, but it wasn’t. Too big.

And then I thought wolf, though I’d seen only one of those. But he wasn’t a wolf, either. Too . . . blunt. Not enough snout.

And then: dog, though not the kind I knew.

Wild dog, maybe.

He had a big head, a lean body, and was well brindled—some of him brown, some red, some gray—with an ample tail and a coat still winter-thick.

Even from five paces away, I could see an enormous tick hanging from above one eye, so full of blood it waggled as the dog tipped his head to one side, his face fiercely curious.

I didn’t move.

“Who are you?” I said carefully.

As if in answer, he took a slow step toward me, his eyes dropping from my face to the bucket of milk in my hand, then lifting to my face again.

I carefully set the bucket down and took off the lid.

But when I looked up again, the path was empty.

If he’d been my dog, I would have called him Ghost.

Chapter Ten

I waited for the dog to reappear, but there was no sign of him.

I waited some more, hoping he would come back. Hoping he wouldn’t.

Nothing.

So I put the lid back on the bucket and started again toward the Petersons’. I wasn’t afraid. Not exactly. But I was careful, watching for the dog as I climbed.

“Samuel!” I called, though he usually ignored me and was, besides, bound to be with Mr. Peterson by now, following him around like a shadow, yammering about nothing of importance. He seemed to crave the company of men lately, and I couldn’t blame him. I knew he loved me and Esther and our mother, but I also knew how much he missed our father.