I eat so fast it gives me a bellyache. We say a few more general words to each other, mostly about the weather and the roads, all very polite, neither of us volunteering anything personal. I compliment her on her tidy house and her fat baby, which is always safe, and she observes that Peony looks sturdy and strong. After eating every single bite, I rise to clean my plate, just like I would at home, which seems to take her aback.

“Way my mama taught me,” I say.

She laughs. “Well, you tell your mama she raised you right, next time you see her.”

I hesitate a space too long. “Will do, ma’am,” I answer softly.

She opens her mouth to say something else, but changes her mind. She wraps up some extra food in a handkerchief and hands it to me, along with a couple of wrinkled winter apples.

“For your pretty mare,” she says.

“How much do I owe you for all this?” I ask, reaching for my change.

“Three pennies for the eggs.”

“But—”

“You earned it. That’s enough firewood to get me through the rest of the week.”

“Well, all right.”

I can’t get back on the road fast enough. At least my belly is full and my horse is rested.

As the morning passes, I encounter more travelers, and it’s a little easier each time. Most want to stop for a friendly chat, but I try to keep our interactions to a quick howdy. Twice, when the way is clear, I urge Peony into a run.

By midafternoon, I catch up to a woodcutter, whose slow mule cart is loaded with firewood. A farmer rides beside him, his saddlebags filled with bright red crab apples. As with everyone on the road, I search their faces for a spark of familiarity and am relieved when I don’t recognize either one.

“Afternoon, son,” the farmer says.

“Hey, you’re coming from Lumpkin County, right?” the woodcutter says to me. “You hear tell of Lucky Westfall’s murder?”

My words freeze in my mouth. “I . . . No, sir. Haven’t heard a thing.”

The woodcutter turns to the farmer. “Him and his wife was both murdered. Might be the same gang that killed those Indians out by Dalton.”

“Westfall was an Indian?” the farmer asks.

“No, but they was after gold both times.”

I wait for him to add, “The Westfalls had a daughter. She’s missing now.” Instead, the conversation shifts to unsolved murders from a decade ago, and then to a debate about whether it’s really murder to kill an Indian, and then to the price of winter wheat. I keep pace with them, as they’d expect this close to town, but I’m silent the whole while, and my hands grip Peony’s reins so hard I feel them through my gloves.