The blood trail plunges down a steep bank thick with young birches. Crimson smears darken their white trunks. My wounded deer is heading toward the McCauley claim, where Jefferson lives with his good-for-nothing da. No sense paying a visit after my hunt, because they’re certainly not home. Jeff’s da attends church every single Sunday, no matter what, on the misguided notion that regular bench sitting makes him decent.

The slope ends at a shallow but swift creek. The water’s edge glitters with ice, but the creek’s center runs clear and clean. My boots are well oiled. If I’m quick, I can cross before the water seeps into my stockings. I hitch my skirt and petticoats higher and plunge in.

Midway across, I freeze.

The gold sense sparks in the back of my throat, sharp and hard. It creeps down my throat and into my chest, where it diffuses into a steady buzz, like dancing locusts. My stomach heaves once, but I swallow against the nausea. We don’t have enough food in the cellar for me to go wasting a meal.

I force my belly to relax, to embrace the sensation. Best to let it wash over me, through me. Allow it to settle in like an old friend come to stay.

It’s only bad like this the first time I’m near something big. A nugget, usually, but sometimes a large vein. From habit, I close my eyes and focus hard, turning in place to find where the sensation is strongest. If I hit it just right, it will be like a string tugging my chest, like something sucking . . . There. I open my eyes. Just across the creek, behind a young, winter-stripped maple. The blood trail leads in the same direction.

All at once I’m shivering, my feet icy with cold. I splash through the creek and scramble up the opposite bank, which is slick with snowmelt. How long was I standing in the water? It seemed like only moments. I wriggle my toes inside my soaked stockings, hoping I haven’t ruined my boots. We can’t afford another pair right now. Good thing I wore my old hunting skirt. The hem is already a disaster and won’t suffer much from being dragged through the stream.

At the top of the bank, I check my rifle, and it seems dry. At least I had sense enough to not let it dangle in the water. As I step around the maple’s trunk, the gold sense grows stronger, but I ignore it because the deer lies in a small depression banked with bloody snow.

He pushes up with his forelegs, antlered head straining in the opposite direction. I whip up my rifle just in case, but he collapses back into the snow, his sides heaving.