I lift the bar and swing open the door, and they come pouring out, squawking and pecking at the toes of my boots, as if this will summon their breakfast even sooner. They forget all about me the moment their feed is scattered on the ground. Except for my favorite hen, Isabella, who flaps into my arms when I crouch. I stroke her glossy black tail feathers while she pecks at the seed in my hand. It hurts a little, but that’s all right.

I have a strange life; I know it well. We have a big homestead and not enough working hands, so I’m the girl who hunts and farms and pans for gold because her daddy never had sons. I’m forever weary, my hands roughed and cracked, my skirts worn too thin too soon. The town girls poke fun at me, calling me “Plain Lee” on account of my strong hands and my strong jaw. I don’t mind so much because it’s better than them knowing the real trickiness in my days—that I find gold the way a water witch divines wells.

But there’s plenty I love about my life that makes it all just fine: the sunrise on the snowy mountain slopes, a mama and daddy who know my worth, that sweet tingle when a gold nugget sits in the palm of my hand. And my chickens. I love my loud, silly chickens.

Only four eggs today. I gather them quickly, brushing straw from their still-warm shells and settling them gently into my pockets. Then I grab my rifle and head inside to face the aftermath of witching up another nugget.

Chapter Two

Daddy always says I was born with a gold nugget in my left hand and a pickax in my right. That’s why Mama had such a hard time birthing me; she had to squeeze a lot more out of her belly than just a bundle of baby girl. The first time I heard it told, I gave my rag doll to Orpha the dog and announced I would never have children of my own.

It didn’t take me long to figure it for a fancy lie, like the one about St. Nicholas bringing presents on Christmas, or how walking backward around the garden three times would keep the aphids out of our squash. But that’s Daddy for you, always telling tall tales.

I don’t mind. I love his stories, and his best ones are the secret ones, the mostly true ones, spoken in whispers by the warmth of the box stove, with no one to hear but me and Mama. They’re always about gold. And they’re always about me.