I saddle her quick, mount up, and adjust the skirt to drape comfortably. The fabric flaps in the wind, but Peony doesn’t seem to mind. The ankles of my boots show, but it’s nothing everyone hasn’t been seeing for months.

“Watch the leg,” Lucie says, but she’s grinning ear to ear.

“Good luck, Lee!” Therese says, and her gaze has a bit of longing in it as she watches me ride off.

Outside the wagon circle, Mrs. Joyner, Mrs. Hoffman, and the Major are watching the children play. I wave as I ride by, and after a moment’s pause, the women wave back. Major Craven stares longest, but eventually he waves too.

Peony sees the other horses ahead and pulls at the bit. I let her loose as gunshots crack the air. A small herd of antelope leaps away. The men give chase, but the herd is too quick, and they pull up after only a few strides.

“Did we get any?” I say, riding into the group. I am going to brazen it out, even if my skirt feels like a giant flag.

“Hey, Lee,” Jefferson says, all business. Like there’s nothing different about me at all.

The bachelors tip their caps, wearing small, secretive smiles. Mr. Robichaud nods to me. Mr. Joyner’s face is mottled with scabs, his eyes red-rimmed, his brows furrowed, but he nods too. Mr. Hoffman says, “Lee, I want to thank you—”

“Nice skirt, Georgia,” says Jonas Waters, Frank Dilley’s second-in-command.

I frown. “Never mind that. Did we get any?”

“Tom winged one,” Jefferson says. “But it didn’t go down. The others leaped away too fast.”

Once pronghorns spook, lightning can’t catch them. The herd is disappearing over a low hill, but a few stragglers lag behind.

“They’ll stop at the river. Let’s cut around that way, stay downwind, see if we can get a second shot.” I head off as soon as I say it, like I have on a dozen other hunts. I glance back over my shoulder. Everyone is right behind me except Mr. Joyner, who hesitates before deciding to follow.

Just as I suspected, we round the bend and find the small herd at the water’s edge. Only half of them drink. The rest hold their heads high, ears twitching, ready to bolt at the slightest alarm.

“It’s a long shot,” I say softly. “But I don’t think we can get any closer. Can I have the rifle?”

Mr. Joyner shakes his head.

“Why not?”

“You’re . . . you’re . . .”

“I was a woman the last time I shot something for you.”

“Take my gun,” Jefferson says. When Mr. Joyner glares at him, Jeff says, “She’s a good shot. And I’m hungry.”

“We can do this ourselves,” Mr. Joyner says. He lifts his rifle and aims it. “Let’s all pick an animal and fire on the count of three. One . . . two . . .”