“That’s right. Well, Jim knew a few things.” In as soft a voice as I can manage, I tell Jefferson everything: about Hiram being sweet on my mother, about how he lost both Mama and the land lottery to his brother, about how no one—not even my daddy—knows what happened to Mama in Boston that made her run away from her fine house and wealthy family to hack out a living in Indian country. I tell Jefferson every single thing, except the one thing I should never tell a soul: that of everything Hiram thought life had cheated him of, the witchy girl who could find gold might be the one that rankles him most.

“So,” Jefferson says after a long pause. “You think you’re rid of him?”

“Maybe.” Dread curls in my belly. “No. I’m not rid of him. But I don’t think Hiram wants to kill me. He wants . . . something else. He wouldn’t say what. After I ran away, he headed west by sea. He might reach California ahead of us.”

“You think he’ll be looking for you?”

“I know he will.”

“Huh.” He’s silent a moment. Then: “I don’t like it one bit.”

“Me neither.”

“And I don’t understand how a man could kill his own brother. Lucky Westfall of all people! Everyone liked him. Even my da.”

I choke a little on my next breath.

“Lee?”

“I miss him bad, Jeff.”

“I know.”

The wagon bed above us groans as one of the Joyners turns over. “Long day ahead,” Jefferson says. The weight of his hand descends onto my shoulder. He gives me a squeeze, and the gesture fills me up even better than Mrs. Joyner’s badly baked beans. “Lee, I’m glad you got away. Even gladder that you’re here.”

I smile into the dark. “Me too.”

“I won’t let that uncle of yours near you. I promise.”

“Thanks, Jeff.”

We say our good nights, and Jefferson turns his back to me and falls right asleep. I lie awake awhile, listening to the sounds of our camp—crackling fires and creaking wagons, shuffling oxen and bleating sheep, and my best friend breathing easy beside me.

When the bustle of morning rouses me, Jefferson is already gone. I shove on Daddy’s boots and scoot out from under the wagon to find our camp in a flurry. Everything is half loaded, and most of the oxen stand yoked before their wagons. It must have drizzled last night, because the ground is muddy and churned from all the goings-on. Mist chills the air, and gray hazes the sky, but everyone waves and smiles like it’s the Fourth of July. And maybe it is, in a way. Today begins a new life for many of us.