A silhouette appears around the bend and rides toward me at a leisurely pace. Not anyone I know, thank the stars. He’s gray and heavily whiskered, and he stoops low over a swaybacked mare. A huge tear in his hat has been hastily stitched with dark thread.

“Howdy,” he says, with a tip of his hat.

“Howdy,” I reply, tipping my own hat. One little word, but it sets my heart pounding fit to tumble out of my chest.

We pass each other. I stare straight ahead as if I haven’t a care in the world, as if I’ve every right to this road. I imagine him calling out at my back. What’s a young lady like you doing out here all alone? Why is your horse so muddy?

He doesn’t. The sound of his mount’s hooves fades, but it’s a while before I breathe easy. “We did it,” I whisper after a spell. “I don’t think he suspected a thing.”

We press on. The air chills. Peony’s steady steps echo around us. Except for that man with the mended hat, I haven’t seen a single soul, which is odd, even for winter. I’m fretting all over again that I’ve gone the wrong way, when I catch the sharp scent of burning pine. Sure enough, we round the next hill and find Prince Edward.

Houses cluster along a western slope, smoke rising from their chimneys and lanterns glowing in their windows. Below them are a white clapboard church, a small store, and a two-story tavern. Lanterns swing from the tavern’s front post, illuminating the double doors and wooden stoop. Everything I need is there—oats for Peony and supper for me. But I don’t dare go inside.

A group of men stagger from the tavern door, where they pause to don their hats and pull out their pipes. Coals glow in their pipe bowls, and sickly sweet tobacco smoke fills the air.

Quickly, I aim Peony away. We’ll circle the town, keeping to the shadows. Then we’ll find a place to camp for the night.

Too late. “Hey, boy,” one calls out.

I pretend not to hear, but my neck prickles, and my grip on the reins tightens. Peony sidesteps in response.

“Boy, I’m talking to you. What’s your name?”

I recognize his voice now— It’s Abel Topper, from the funeral. The one I saw talking to Uncle Hiram.

I hold Peony to a smooth, casual pace, but my mind races. Topper was a foreman at one of the mines before it dried up. His men—all desperate for work—could be here with him. My uncle might have hired them to look for me. Why did I waste time with that awful mud?

“Leave the boy alone,” someone says.