“And he’s lucky his wife and children didn’t,” Therese adds. “Especially with Mrs. Joyner in the family way. But I think he was ashamed.”

“And rightly so,” Lucie says. “Anyway, he should not judge. You have done your share, it is the truth. You’ve worked as hard as anybody, and harder than some. What do you want?”

What do I want? To stop lying, for sure and certain. But I also want to keep greasing the axles and riding Peony and hunting game and earning my own way. “I don’t mind working. I mucked stalls and found . . .er, panned for gold and went hunting on our homestead while growing up. But I did it as me.” As a girl with gold-witching magic. “As a girl.”

“A woman,” Lucie insists.

Therese helps me to my feet. My leg throbs, but it bears my weight. Holding Therese’s shoulders, I step into Lucie’s skirt. My man’s shirt tucks in nicely, and Lucie helps me tie the skirt in back. I twist in place, letting it swish around.

I take a deep breath, the first really deep breath I can remember in a long time. It feels like I’m back in my own skin, after six months of wearing someone else’s.

“Here are your boots,” Therese says, pushing them forward. “I got out most of the blood, but they have a few stains now.”

I slide them on, gratitude clogging my throat.

“It’s all right if you want to hide in here a bit,” Lucie says.

“No use putting it off,” I say, but I stare at the canvas opening, unable to reach for it.

Lucie loosens it, and light pours in. “Be careful with that leg,” she says.

I blink into the sunshine, bracing myself for rifles and pitchforks and angry glares. Except for Peony, the wagon circle is empty, the cook fires cold. A cloud of dust rises in the distance, back the way we came.

I climb over, using the toolbox as a step, so I don’t have to jump far with my bad leg. Therese and Lucie climb out behind me.

“Where is everyone?”

“The men spotted a herd of pronghorn,” Lucie says. She holds her hand over her eyes and stares into the distance.

“Antelope?” I slam my hat onto my head, gingerly lower myself down, and hobble over to Peony. I grab the saddle; Mr. Joyner’s rifle is gone.

“Where are you going?” Lucie asks, voice full of concern.

“To make sure we get one.” Really, I just want to be riding Peony again because I’m never uncomfortable on her back, no matter what I’m wearing. “We haven’t had fresh meat for more than a week.”