My new-to-me shirt and trousers are in the barn too, along with some supplies and Mama’s sewing shears. It all has to wait a few hours more.

The town square is packed with people when I arrive with the colts, Chestnut and Hemlock, pulling my wagon. There’s no way I’m getting through this noisy crowd, especially without Peony to keep the colts in line, so I steer around behind the courthouse and the general store. It’s muddy back here, but quieter. I throw the brake lever, grab my skirts, and jump from the wagon.

I give Hemlock a pat on the nose, tie the colts’ reins to the store’s back porch rail, and walk through the gloomy alley between courthouse and store, toward the square. Hundreds are gathered on the green—all miners by the wiry, sunless look of them, a few of them slaves. They’re listening to someone lecture from the steps of the courthouse, and as I approach, the speaker’s words ring out: “Why go to California? In that ridge lies more gold than man ever dreamt of. There’s millions in it!”

I almost laugh aloud. It’s Dr. Stephenson’s voice; I know it well. He’s from the mint, and he’s assayed our gold plenty of times.

Everyone in the crowd mutters. Some are nodding. But others, like me, are tickled by the fact Dr. Stephenson considers this a compelling argument. Sure, there’s plenty of gold in Findley Ridge; you don’t need to divine it like me to know that. But it all belongs to the mine, and Dr. Stephenson is wasting his breath. These men are going west, for sure and certain. There, they’ll work just as hard as they do now, and at the end of the day, they’ll have sore backs and blistered hands and coughs that won’t quit—but they’ll get to keep their gold.

Good thing I’m leaving today. Most of these folks will be a few months saving money and selling their belongings, but soon enough, there won’t be anything left of this town. I edge away from the crowd and mount the steps to Free Jim’s store.

“Leah Westfall,” he says as I enter. He stands behind a counter painted bright white. Beside him is a glass jar full of hard candy, a large scale for weighing dry goods, a smaller scale for weighing gold, and—new to my eye—a half-dozen large pickaxes. The shelves behind him are filled with pairs of boots; some new, some not. “What can I help you with?” he asks.

Gold pricks at my throat. He’s got dust lying around somewhere, in addition to coins from the mint. “Hello, Free Jim. Uncle Hiram wants me to sell two of our horses. A matched pair. Know anyone in the market?”

“The colts, right? The ones Reuben broke?”

“Yes, sir.”