He misunderstands. “I know you’re fond of them,” he says gently. “But I don’t want to pay to feed more horses than we need, and my own are much better stock.”

“Not Peony,” I say.

“I might sell that one later. Abel Topper was asking about her. Thought he might get a deal, since Reuben passed.”

My fingernails dig into my palms.

Maybe I imagine the sympathy that flits across his face. “Take two of the others for now. With so many people heading west, Free Jim can turn them around for a quick profit. I’ve already talked to him. He’s expecting you.”

Uncle Hiram has just unwittingly paid my way to California. “Yes, sir.” My mutinous lips want to smile more than anything, but I won’t let them.

“Bring me whatever you get. It will help pay your tuition.”

“Yes, sir.”

I busy myself with cleaning as he rises from the table, and I refuse to look up as he buckles his holster and dons his overcoat and hat. Go, go, go, I say in my own mind, like a prayer, but Lord Almighty, does he take his sweet time about it. Finally, the door closes, and I allow that grin to go slipping all over my face.

I whip off my apron and hang it by the washtub. I run upstairs to my dormer, where I grab Daddy’s castoff boots from under the bed—the ones I wear for hunting and mucking stalls. I’ve already stuffed extra stockings into the toes, but I won’t put them on for good until after I’ve sold the horses. After lacing my own boots tight, I pull the leaflet from where I hid it under my straw mattress. It’s wrinkled and damp, and the upper right edge has a tear because I’ve handled it so many times. Mama used to say the water of the Atlantic goes on and on—to the edge of the world. I want to see that someday; I surely do. But Jefferson is heading toward Independence, so that’s the way I’ll go too.

I lay the leaflet on the floor. With the toe of my boot, I edge it slightly under the bed. I want it to look natural. Like I left it there on accident. Hopefully, Hiram will find it and think I’m heading to California by sea.

For the last two days I’ve been silently saying good-bye to everything in the house—the box stove, the worn table where we ate so many meals together, the porch where Mama and I used to sit on summer evenings, and especially my bedroom with its beautiful window. The patchwork quilt, though, I’m taking with me. It’s already wound tight in a saddlebag, hidden in the hayloft.