I let her plea hang in the cold night air for a spell, until she shifts on her feet and drops her gaze. Finally, I say, “I’ll be gone by morning.”

She slumps in relief.

I say, “I wish you and your family the very best of luck, ma’am. Maybe I’ll see you in California.” I don’t really mean it, but it gives me a nasty twist of pleasure to see her startle at my words.

“To you as well, Mr. McCauley.” She turns and walks away fast, lantern light bobbing with each step.

I lean into Peony’s shoulder. “How do you feel about leaving right now?” I whisper, and she nuzzles my hair in response. It’s not like I could sleep after that, anyway.

I pull on Daddy’s boots. My feet have gotten used to them, big size and all. I don’t even get blisters anymore.

My hands shake as I throw Peony’s saddle over her back, and I realize I’m crying. I wipe at my cheeks with the back of my hand. I grab Mama’s locket and squeeze a moment, giving it a chance to refill my well of resolve.

I tighten the cinch, check my saddlebag, and mount up. Outside, a light mist is falling on a world that’s so cold and wet it feels like a tub filled with misery. The Joyners plan to head north, either to Port Girardeau or St. Louis, so I’ll take the first left I find and head north later.

Coney is curled up on the porch of the house. He lifts his head and stares quizzically. He stands, shakes himself, and follows us down the road a ways before whining and turning back. Of everyone in the Joyner family, I’ll miss him the most.

I nudge Peony forward. “It’s just you and me now, girl.”

Again. It’s just you and me again, is what I should say. But I know she understands.

Chapter Fifteen

The first person I meet on the road as the sun rises is a grinning huckster with a beard as stiff as a whisk broom. Patches cover his elbows, and a striped feather juts from his hat’s band. His mule cart is loaded with pots and pans, bolts of fabric and plaster dolls, pickaxes and even wishbone-shaped divining rods that he claims will lead a fellow to gold.

“No, thank you,” I tell him. If the divining rods worked at all, my uncle wouldn’t have killed my folks to claim my magic.

His smile is fierce and determined. “I have it on the best authority that these rods—”

“I don’t have any money.”

His smile disappears like fog in the sun. “Good day, then.”

He snaps the reins, the mules protest, and the cart rattles forward. I turn Peony around and walk beside him.

“Can you tell me if this is the road to Independence?” I ask.