“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.”