He grabs the sorrel mare; they’ve never named the poor girl, just call her “the sorrel mare,” and they keep her penned for lack of a proper barn. Jefferson mounts up, and I use the fence to climb up on Peony, and off we go. Jefferson leads us southward, toward my house.

“We’re going back?” I thought we’d go for help.

His voice is gentle as he says, “No use getting Doc now. And no murderer with a lick of sense would stick around after doing the deed.”

I stare blankly.

“Surely you know, Lee?” Jefferson says. “‘Lucky’s gold’ is practically a legend. Once word is out that your mama and daddy have gone to Jesus, the whole town will come poking around. Everyone thinks your daddy stashed—”

“Oh.” Tears threaten to spill again. I can imagine it now. Annabelle Smith and her mother coming by with their peach pie and their slick words of sympathy and their darting eyes. Sheriff Weber searching the whole homestead for “clues,” opening cupboards and shifting hay bales and maybe even prying up floorboards.

“I need to hide . . . until everything’s settled.” The words make me feel heartless and cold. Necessity is a harsh master, Mama used to say. Bet she didn’t anticipate that necessity would make me look to our gold even before giving her a proper burial.

“It’s true, isn’t it,” Jefferson says, his voice suddenly wistful.

“It’s true,” I whisper.

“All right, then.” He nods, as though to himself. “We’ll have to be careful and quick. Just in case your mama was right and whoever did this decided to stick around.”

“I’m glad Nugget is with us.”

“She’ll let us know if someone happens by.”

We pass the ridge where Daddy and I started working the new vein, then I cross the tiny cemetery that only has two headstones—one for Orpha the dog, and one for my baby brother who lived three days. Daddy carved them himself. There’ll soon be two more, and I don’t know who will carve them.

Our pace slows even more as we ride through the orchard. Jefferson sits tall on his mare, alert for the slightest strangeness. As we pass the henhouse, something in me screams not to look, but I can’t help glancing that way. The woodpile blocks my view of everything except Mama’s legs. Her skirt is still tucked beneath her ankles.

A shadow passes overhead, and I duck before realizing it’s a great buzzard circling. The first of the scavengers, coming to get what’s mine.

“Let’s go in the back door,” I say. I’ll have to face Daddy’s body again soon enough. But not just yet.