Even if someone heard me out, they’d have questions about my family, my home, my destination. I’d have to tell a heap of lies. Then once they figured out I’m a girl, they’d tie me up and drag me back to Dahlonega faster than I could sneeze. Back to my no-good viper of an uncle, because he’s my guardian, and a fine-looking, well-spoken gentleman besides.

I turn Peony north, toward Tunnelsville and Chattanooga. We keep to the side of the road so we can hide in the woods at a moment’s notice.

Tunnelsville cozies up to the mountain, a whole town built just to support the work of digging a hole. The houses are bare and crooked, most not even whitewashed, some barely more than lean-tos. The railroad tracks I’ve been following end abruptly at a wide, dark tunnel. From its base, a steep trail climbs up and over the peak. It’s as thick as ants, with people and horses and mules, all laden with packs.

The town has one saddler. He’s a squinty-eyed man with a wisp-thin beard and calloused hands. I ask him about fixing Peony’s saddle while he’s bent over an awl and a strip of cowhide. He mumbles something about taking a couple days because of his other orders.

“No! I mean, no, thank you. Can you refer me to someone else?”

“Nearest saddler is in Dalton, which is more than a day’s . . .” His words freeze halfway out of his mouth when he finally looks up and notices Daddy’s saddle.

He grabs it out of my hands, squints at it closely, turns it over. Then he squints at me and my admittedly ragged condition.

“I’ll make you an offer, son,” he says. “You trade me this saddle for one that’s already fixed.”

While I hesitate, he retrieves it from a wooden saddle rack and hands it to me.

It’s plainer than my daddy’s saddle, smaller and worn. But all the straps are new, and it seems sturdy enough.

“That’ll carry you all the way to California, no lie,” he says, and I recoil. How did he know? But no, gold fever is in the air, and he’s only talking in a general way.

“Well. Maybe. I . . .”

“Tell you what, you leave your name, and if you decide to come back this way again, I’ll trade you back my saddle for yours, plus the cost of my supplies and labor.”

“That seems fair.” Not that I ever expect to come back this way again, but knowing I could makes it easier to let go. “My name’s Lee . . .”

“Lee?” he says, scratching it into a ledger.

Jefferson’s last name is the first one that comes to mind. “Lee McCauley.”

“All right Mr. McCauley, it’s a deal.”