I return to the house and discover that several people dropped off food before heading back to their own homes. I count three jars of jam, two baskets full of biscuits, a meat pie, some baked ham and smashed potatoes. More than I can possibly eat. Warmth swells in my chest, surprising me. The people of Dahlonega are a gossipy, small-minded lot, but we’ve always taken care of our own.

Boots tromp up the stairs outside. The braid rug covering our hidey-hole has puckered at the edge. Quick as a snake, I put my toe out and stomp the wrinkle down. I almost laugh aloud at myself. Hiram already stole my gold. Keeping secrets is such a habit.

He doesn’t even knock, just swings the front door wide and strides inside like the house has been waiting for him. He whips off his gloves and whacks them against his thigh, sending powdery snow falling to the floor.

I don’t bother to hide my glare. “Hang your hat and coat there by the door,” I say, indicating the iron hooks in the wall.

“What culinary delights are conspiring to make my mouth water?”

If he’s trying to sound like a fine Southern gentleman, he’s failing. “I don’t know. Whatever folks left for us?”

“I smell baked ham,” he says, shrugging off his overcoat. “Fix a plate for me?”

I consider storming off, but I can’t shake my upbringing. When you have a guest in your house, you fix them something to eat. I grab a clean plate from the hutch and cut him a slice of ham, then surround it with potatoes and biscuits. I hope he chokes on the first bite.

Hiram makes himself at home. He has a heavier step and quicker movements than my daddy, and the tobacco scent of him swells, pushing everything out of its way, making the air of my home seem unfamiliar and strange. He settles into Daddy’s chair by the cold box stove, and I put the plate on the side table next to him.

“Help me with my boots,” he says.

My gut churns as I approach, careful like a cat. I kneel at his feet, and my fingers squelch in lingering mud as I grab and yank. The boots come loose easily enough that he could have done it himself. He sits back, sighing like a man well and truly satisfied. “Thank you, sweet pea.”

I ignore him, setting the boots by the door. I wipe my hands on a rag. Then, standing straight as I can, my chin in the air but my face as void as a snow-blanked hill, I ask the question that’s been squeezing my soul: “How long are you going to stay?”