“Promise me you’ll bring him back,” she says.

My shoulders tense. Daddy taught me never to make promises I couldn’t keep. “We’ll look all night.”

She reaches out her arms and begs me to come close. When I do, she bends down and wraps her arms around my neck. “We’re lucky to have you with us, Lee McCauley. You’re a good man.”

I extricate myself awkwardly, duck my head, and tug my brim at her. My heart is in a tangle, and I don’t know what to say. I’ve lost everything—my parents, my home, my gold, my daddy’s Hawken rifle, his saddle. I even lost my name. Leah Westfall, the girl who took care of Lucky Westfall’s farm for him and panned for gold—she doesn’t exist anymore. But maybe Lee McCauley isn’t so bad after all. I stood up to Frank Dilley a few minutes ago, and now I’m going to go search for a little boy, because it’s what I want to do.

“I should get going,” I say.

As Jefferson and I climb into our saddles, Therese comes running up, her skirts in one hand, a bundled kerchief in the other. “Here!” she says breathlessly, handing the bundle up to Jefferson. “For you and Lee. Might be a long night.”

“What is it?” I ask.

“Cornbread! We used the last of our cornmeal today. Thought everyone could use a treat after that stampede and Major Craven and . . .” She looks down at her feet.

“Thank you, Therese,” I say.

“I . . . I wish I could go with you.” She straightens, forces a grin. “Anyway, good luck!” She dashes off, and Jefferson stares after her.

I lean over and rap my knuckles on his leg. “Let’s go.”

He snaps out of his thoughts. “Let’s go,” he agrees.

I cluck to Peony, and we ride into the wide black night, lit only by a giant prickly sky and a low, menacing moon. The grass muffles the horses’ steps. Insects buzz against a whipping breeze, and a coyote yips in the distance, coaxing a growl from Nugget.

“So what’s the plan?” Jefferson asks. “How are we going to find him?”

I can’t tell Jefferson my real plan, which is to crisscross the land until I feel the tug of gold. So I say, “Andy knows us. He’ll answer to our voices. So we head down every trail, every path that a four-year-old might take, and we call his name until we find him.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. Think like a four-year-old boy.”

He says nothing.

“You’ve had more practice thinking like a four-year-old boy than I have,” I point out.

He frowns. “You already searched downriver?”