I wipe my eyes quickly and get to my feet. “I have something for you.”

“What?”

I close my eyes and turn in place. “Just have to remember . . .” There. On the shelf above the box stove, where Mama’s wrapping-paper flowers sit in their plain wooden vase. I walk over, upend the vase, and the nugget drops into my hand. I hand it to him. “This one is yours. I . . . chanced upon it after I chased a white tail onto your claim.”

He grips the nugget tight, saying nothing. He’s still staring at the empty flour sack on the floor by the hole. It’s stamped CULBERT & SONS, LTD. FLOUR MILLERS.

“We had to import sacks special from England,” I say. “To get the small size. Daddy hoped people might think they were really filled with flour at first glance.”

Jefferson tears his gaze from the sack to stare at my face instead.

“Please say something, Jeff. Daddy was going to take it all to the Charlotte mint, where no one knows who we are, but he got so sick. It’s just been sitting here for more than a year and . . . Well, Mama said people would hate us for being too rich too quick. I couldn’t stand it if you were one of them.”

Jeff shakes his head. “It’s not that.” Finally, he shoves the nugget I gave him into a pocket. I thought he’d forgotten it.

“Then what is it?”

He squats down beside the empty sack, brushes the top with a finger. The fever burns in his eyes. He’s picturing it full of sweet, raw gold. All of a sudden, he snatches his hand back like he’s bee-stung.

“Let’s go get Sheriff Weber,” he says. We head out the back door, where Nugget greets us with a little yip.

“Don’t tell!” I say, and he freezes on the porch step. “About the gold, I mean. People might think there’s more. They might . . .”

His shoulders rise and fall with a breath. “If you say so.” Before mounting up on the sorrel mare, he turns to me and adds, “But, Lee? You could have trusted me.”

I nod, even though shame makes the back of my throat hot. There’s so much he still doesn’t know. So much I can’t say.

“We should grab a few of your things,” Jefferson says. “I’m sure someone in town would take you in while—”

“No.”

“Lee—”

“I’m getting help, and I’m coming right back. This is my home, Jeff.”

He frowns. “Promise me you’ll keep your guns handy. I’ll stick around as much as possible.”

“Thank you.”

As we ride toward town, I can’t shake the feeling that someone is watching us. Maybe it’s the continued dead silence of the woods, or the way Nugget keeps her ears perked and sticks so close to Peony that she nearly gets stomped.