The thought frees me to grab some hardtack and force myself to eat. As I chew, my thoughts drift to Jefferson, who set off with even less than I did. I hope his supplies are lasting and the sorrel mare is doing well by him. I hope he’s safe, with a cheery fire of his own. And to be honest, I hope Jefferson’s soul is giving him a sting that he ran off on me, leaving me all alone.

No, he couldn’t help it. He was in a bad way as much as me, with a daddy who is worse than no daddy at all. It wasn’t Jefferson’s fault. It wasn’t.

The hardtack turns to grit in my teeth, and my stomach rolls over in protest. Turns out, I don’t have room for much inside me except worry and anger and tears that haven’t been given leave to see daylight.

Speak of the devil and you summon it, because just thinking about tears invites them to spring to my eyes. I blink rapidly, trying to tamp them down because they feel like angry tears, not sad ones.

There, I’ve said it. I’m mad.

I’m mad at my parents for not being here, I’m mad at Jefferson for leaving without me, and I’m mad at myself for not going when he asked. I’m mad at everyone back home for brushing off my parents’ murders, and I’m mad they turned the funeral into a church social. Most of all, I’m mad at Uncle Hiram for being a slimy, villainous beast and taking every single thing I ever loved. I’m scared and I’m mad, and both keep me awake in the dark for a long time.

The cold wakes me before dawn. The fire has burned down to nothing. I’m shivering, teeth chattering, and my blanket is soaked with dew.

My stomach is truly empty, and my tears have dried; I won’t be shedding more. I chew on another bit of hardtack as I saddle Peony.

The only way to go is forward. “C’mon,” I say. “We have to keep moving.”

Chapter Ten

The sun is still low enough to brush the hilltops when I see a woman off to the side, collecting eggs from a coop. I keep to the far edge of the road and try not to attract attention.

“Do you want to buy some eggs?” she calls out.

My heart races, but my stomach rumbles. Reluctantly, and maybe eagerly, I turn Peony toward her.

She cradles the eggs in her apron. Her straw-colored hair peeks out of her bonnet, which hasn’t done a thing to keep the freckles from her cheeks. “How many do you want?” she asks.

“I’ll give you a dime for a dozen.” As soon as the words are out, I know I’ve offered too much.