Walk on Earth a Stranger (6 page)

“I smell baked ham,” he says, shrugging off his overcoat. “Fix a plate for me?”

I consider storming off, but I can't shake my upbringing. When you have a guest in your house, you fix them something
to eat. I grab a clean plate from the hutch and cut him a slice of ham, then surround it with potatoes and the biscuits. I hope he chokes on the first bite.

Hiram makes himself at home. He has a heavier step and quicker movements than my daddy, and the tobacco scent of him swells, pushing everything out of its way, making the air of my home seem unfamiliar and strange. He settles into Daddy's chair by the cold fire, and I put the plate on the side table next to him.

“Help me with my boots,” he says.

My gut churns as I approach, careful like a cat. I kneel at his feet, and my fingers squelch in lingering mud as I grab and yank. The boots come loose easily enough that he could have done it himself. He sits back, sighing like a man well and truly satisfied. “Thank you, sweet pea.”

I ignore him, setting the boots by the door. I wipe my hands on a rag, then, standing straight as I can, my chin in the air but my face as void as a snow-blanked hill, I ask the question that's been squeezing my soul: “How long are you going to stay?”

He pulls a pipe from the breast pocket of his vest. It's carved with vines, and the sick-sweet scent of tobacco gets even stronger, though the pipe remains unlit. He contemplates it a moment, smiles a small, secret smile, then shoves it back into his pocket. “Forever, Leah,” he says finally. “This is my home now.”

“It belongs to me. Daddy left it to me in his will.” My fists clench at my sides again. “You know it. You're the one who
drew it up.”

“He left this homestead—everything—to me,” he says.

I open my mouth, close it. Try again. I imagine I look like a brook trout, tossed onto the bank and gasping.

His voice gentles. “You need proof; I can see that.” He puts his stockinged feet up on Daddy's stool and leans back. “My boy will be here soon with all my belongings. When he arrives, I'll unpack my office first and show you my brother's will, signed by Reuben himself.”

It takes a moment for me to realize “boy” refers to his slave. If Daddy knew that his brother owned slaves . . .

My eyes prick with tears all over again. I won't cry in front of him. I
won't
.

“Be reasonable, sweet pea. Such a will would have been invalid, anyway. The law, in its wisdom, protects the weaker sex from the hardships and vicissitudes that attend the ownership of property.”

“I'm not weak.”

“Of course not. You're a Westfall.” His smile is all teeth. “But you
are
a young lady, one who has just suffered a terrible tragedy, no less. It's a good thing I came when I did.”

“Why? So you can . . .” I almost say “kill me too.” “So you can take what doesn't belong to you?” I finish lamely.

“It's mine, lawfully and morally. And so are you, sweet pea. My very own charge.” His gaze on me softens. It's the same look of affection Daddy gave me when he said I had a strong heart, and it chills my bones.

“This is a hard time for you; I understand that,” he
continues. “But you and I, we are much alike, I think. We're going to get on swimmingly.” Keeping his eyes on me, he picks up his plate, stabs the ham with a fork, and crams the first large bite into his mouth.

I ignore him, pulling on my own boots—Daddy's castoffs from years ago—and head toward the door. I have plans to make.

“Where are you going?”

I whirl to find Uncle Hiram still peering at me. He seems nervous all of a sudden, and I'm pleased to have shaken that smug composure, though I'm not sure how I did it.

“I'm going to muck stalls.”

“That's man's work.”

“There's no man here willing to work, far as I can see.”

He frowns. “That barn is the cleanest I ever saw.”

“Because I don't shirk my daily chores.”

We stare at each other, our chins set equally hard, and the thought niggles like a worm in my belly: Maybe we are alike. Maybe just a little.

Finally, he says, “You're too valuable to waste on farmwork, Leah. I know what you can do. And I intend you to keep on doing it.”

I do a stink-poor job of keeping the shock off my face. Daddy told him. Hiram knows about me. My knees turn as wobbly as pudding. I need to get away to the barn fast, before I fall apart completely.

“But when my boy gets here, I'll start making a lady out of you. I know Reuben and Elizabeth let you run wild as a colt,
but no longer.”

“Whatever you say.”

“I care about you, Leah Westfall. More than you know. I'll make sure you have the best of everything. The best gowns, the best grooming, the best—”

I walk out and slam the door behind me.

Uncle Hiram tricked my daddy, for sure and certain. He drew up the will, and Daddy signed without question. Hiram is the one person Daddy had trusted and loved enough to let his guard down around.

Trust someone,
Mama said. Her dying words, burned into my heart. But she was wrong. When there's gold to be had, you can't trust anyone. Not a single soul.

Snow has started to pile up against the barn, and I scoop some of it out of the way so I can swing open one of the barn doors. It's not until I'm wiping snow from my hand on to my skirt that I realize I'm still wearing my brand-new dress.

Peony greets me with a snort and a head toss. I shove the locket under my collar so she doesn't accidentally break it, then I slip into her stall and put my arms around her neck. Finally, I let the tears flow.

“You want to go west with me, girl?” I whisper into her mane.

My shoulders relax and my jaw unclenches as she snuffles at my hair and neck. We lived in the barn for two years before Daddy built our house.
The animals come first,
Daddy always said.
They're our lives and livelihood
. I don't really remember that time—I was too little—but I've always felt at home here
with Peony. Always felt safe.

Our wagon sits braked in the center of the barn. On each side are four stalls containing Peony and the rest of the team, two milk cows, and now Uncle Hiram's black gelding. Tack hangs on wooden pegs at the opening to each stall. Hay is stacked against the back wall and in the loft—not enough for winter, not with Hiram's horse here.

I cast around for our missing gold, but I don't sense it anywhere. I'd bet all the hay in our barn that Hiram took it to get assayed already. He probably used some of it to pay our debt to Free Jim and then put the rest in the bank. There's no way I'm getting it back now.

“How do you feel about wearing a saddle again?” I say to Peony. It's been years since she's worn anything but a soft halter for riding; I've always been able to direct her with my knees. But a trip across the continent will demand a lot more of us, and I'll need finer control and a firmer seat.

It's tempting to take the wagon; I could carry more, and Peony is used to that bridle and harness. But if Hiram knows what I can do, he'll come after me, for sure and certain. I'll travel so much faster on horseback.

I stumble against Peony with a sudden realization, my knees threatening to betray me.
I'm
the reason he killed my parents. He wants me. Or rather, my gold sense.

I should leave. Right now. No, tonight when Hiram is sleeping. Maybe I can still catch up with Jefferson. My heart squeezes at the thought. In the space of a week, I've lost my parents, my home, and my best friend. But if I catch up to
Jeff, I'll get one thing back.

Daddy has saddlebags around here somewhere. And horse blankets for winter. My neighbors left enough food to give me a fine start. I'll bring one change of clothes, an extra canteen, Mama's old tinderbox . . .

Thinking of Mama sends her voice into my head.
Nothing slows a girl down faster than haste,
she always said when she saw me hurrying my stitches.

I step away from Peony and take a long, slow breath. I need to be smart about this, not fast, and there's no way in heaven or hell I'm making it to California with nothing but a gun, a horse, and some leftover funeral food. Jefferson, at least, could hire on as protection or even a hunter. Anyone would be glad to have him along. But I'm just a girl. Which means I need money. Enough for almost a year's worth of supplies. I ought to hire a chaperone too, or no wagon train will have me along. I need to look neat and respectable. I need . . .

I need to be a boy.

My pulse hammers in my throat. Could I do it? I'm strong. I can shoot better than any man in Dahlonega. Maybe if I cut my hair. Wrap my chest tight. It will take a day or two to alter some of Daddy's clothes to fit me. I have handsome eyes, sure, but some boys do. I'll just keep Daddy's hat brim pulled low. When I find Jefferson, I'll ask him to say I'm his little brother, even though we don't look a thing alike.

Annabelle Smith would be scandalized to hear what I'm thinking now. But it's my best shot; I know it is. Once I run off, Hiram will be searching for a girl. And if I look like a boy,
no one will think twice about me riding astride or bringing down a deer. I won't have to be neat and proper all the time. I could travel alone, and no one would pay me any mind.

Even as a boy, I could sure use some money. My hand goes to the locket at my chest. No, not that. But Mama has a nice bracelet. Hiram won't notice if a few of the chickens go missing.

My chickens. Who will take care of them?

It hits me like I've been mule-kicked: I'm leaving home. Once I'm gone, never again will I wake to sun shining through my dormer window. I'll never again bake a cobbler with peaches picked fresh from my very own orchard. My parents will never get proper headstones.

I'll just have to make sure it's all worth it. Find a new way for myself. Maybe California is a place where a woman can have her own land, her own life.

I'll wait for you in Independence.

I'm coming, Jeff.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

I
've spent the last two days being agreeable to my uncle. Not friendly, mind you. Just blankly pleasant enough not to arouse suspicion. I made him breakfast both mornings, helped him take off his boots each night, and let him sleep in my parents' bed without batting an eye. I've also been altering some of Daddy's clothes to fit me, and I'm exhausted from staying awake so late, peering at blurry stiches by the light of a single candle.

It's the third morning after the funeral. I'm leaving today. I still don't have any money, but I've scrounged up a few things to sell. I'm trying to decide whether to sell them to Free Jim's store or head out of town first.

Uncle Hiram sits across from me, eating the breakfast I made. He's mopping up egg yolk with a biscuit when he raises his head and says, “I'm sending you to finishing school in the spring.”

I sit quietly, hands in my lap, gaze cast down so my eyes
don't give me away. It shouldn't matter what he says, now that I'm running off, but his declaration makes me feel like a cat with fur being rubbed the wrong way. “The school in town is just fine. Everyone likes Mr. Anders.”

“It was a place to start,” he says around a mouthful of biscuit. “But it's no place to finish. I suppose letters and sums will be useful to us, but you need to learn style and comportment.”

I'm not sure what he means by “useful to
us
,” but I nod and say, “If you think it's best.”

“Which isn't to say you won't be busy here when you're home. I'm sure there's plenty of gold still to be found.”

He wipes his hands on a dishcloth, then puts them into the pockets of his vest. When he pulls them out, they're both fisted. He reaches them toward me and says, “I have a gold half eagle in one hand. Which is it?” There's a twinkle in his eye that reminds me so much of Daddy that my chest hurts.

The coin sings to me clear as spring runoff from his left fist. I point to the right.

He smiles. “You can't keep secrets from me, Leah.”

I sigh and point to the left.

“That's my girl.” He opens his fist, and there it is, shining yellow-bright. “Here. You can have it.”

I snatch the coin from his palm.

In the next instant, I almost give it back. Hiram just made me divine gold. He asked me to do it, and I did. Without question. But I can't say no to five whole dollars right now, even if they come from the devil himself.

A horrid thought occurs to me. “You thinking of taking us west?” I ask. That's the last thing I need—to go where he intended all along.

“Yes,” he says. “Though not for at least a year. Everyone else can help themselves to the surface and placer gold. I have bigger plans in mind for us, but we'll need to put some polish on you first.”

I can't imagine what that means. Maybe I'd rather never know. Unable to make nice a moment more, I rise from the table. “I have chores need doing.”

“And I have some errands to attend to today.” He pulls his silver watch from his breast pocket, flicks it open for a look, then closes it and shoves it back in. “My boy will be here with my things by the end of the week, and I'll need room in the barn. I want you to sell two of the horses.”

I gape at him, marveling at my luck.

He misunderstands. “I know you're fond of them,” he says gently. “But I don't want to pay to feed more horses than we need, and my own are much better stock.”

“Not Peony,” I say.

“I might sell that one later. Abel Topper was asking about her. Thought he might get a deal, since Reuben passed.”

My fingernails dig into my palms.

Maybe I imagine the sympathy that flits across his face. “Take two of the others for now. With so many people heading west, Free Jim can turn them around for a quick profit. I've already talked to him. He's expecting you.”

Uncle Hiram has just unwittingly paid my way to
California. “Yes, sir.” My mutinous lips want to smile more than anything, but I won't let them.

“Bring me whatever you get. It will help pay your tuition.”

“Yes, sir.”

I busy myself with cleaning as he rises from the table, and I refuse to look up as he buckles his holster and dons his overcoat and hat.
Go, go, go,
I say in my own mind, like a prayer, but Lord Almighty, does he take his sweet time about it. Finally, the door closes, and I allow that grin to go slipping all over my face.

I whip off my apron and hang it by the washtub. I run upstairs to my dormer, where I grab Daddy's castoff boots from under the bed—the ones I wear for hunting and mucking stalls. I've already stuffed extra stockings into the toes, but I won't put them on for good until after I've sold the horses. After lacing my own boots tight, I pull the leaflet from where I hid it under my straw mattress. It's wrinkled and damp, and the upper right edge has a tear because I've handled it so many times. Mama used to say the water of the Atlantic goes on and on—to the edge of the world. I want to see that someday; I surely do. But Jefferson is heading toward Independence, so that's the way I'll go too.

I lay the leaflet on the floor. With the toe of my boot, I edge it slightly under the bed. I want it to look natural. Like I left it there on accident. Hopefully, Hiram will find it and think I'm heading to California by sea.

For the last two days I've been silently saying good-bye to everything in the house—the box stove, the worn table where
we ate so many meals together, the porch where Mama and I used to sit on summer evenings, and especially my bedroom with its beautiful window. The patchwork quilt, though, I'm taking with me. It's already wound tight in a saddlebag, hidden in the hayloft.

My new-to-me shirt and trousers are in the barn too, along with some supplies and Mama's sewing shears. It all has to wait a few hours more.

The town square is packed with people when I arrive with the colts, Chestnut and Hemlock, pulling my wagon. There's no way I'm getting through this noisy crowd, especially without Peony to keep the colts in line, so I steer around behind the courthouse and the general store. It's muddy back here, but quieter. I throw the brake lever, grab my skirts, and jump from the wagon.

I give Hemlock a pat on the nose, tie the colts' reins to the store's back porch rail, and walk through the gloomy alley between courthouse and store and toward the square. Hundreds are gathered on the green—all miners by the wiry, sunless look of them, a few of them slaves. They're listening to someone lecture from the steps of the courthouse, and as I approach, the speaker's words ring out: “Why go to California? In that ridge lies more gold than man ever dreamt of. There's millions in it!”

I almost laugh aloud. It's Dr. Stephenson's voice; I know it well. He's from the mint, and he's assayed our gold plenty of times.

Everyone in the crowd mutters. Some are nodding. But others, like me, are tickled by the fact Dr. Stephenson considers this a compelling argument. Sure, there's plenty of gold in Findley Ridge; you don't need to divine it like me to know that. But it all belongs to the mine, and Dr. Stephenson is wasting his breath. These men are going west, for sure and certain. There, they'll work just as hard as they do now, and at the end of the day, they'll have sore backs and blistered hands and coughs that won't quit—but they'll get to keep their gold.

Good thing I'm leaving today. Most of these folks will be a few months saving money and selling their belongings, but soon enough, there won't be anything left of this town. I edge away from the crowd and mount the steps to Free Jim's store.

“Leah Westfall,” he says as I enter. He stands behind a counter painted bright white. Beside him is a glass jar full of hard candy, a large scale for weighing dry goods, a smaller scale for weighing gold, and—new to my eye—a half-dozen large pickaxes. The shelves behind him are filled with pairs of boots; some new, some not. “What can I help you with?” he asks.

Gold pricks at my throat. He's got dust lying around somewhere, in addition to coins from the mint. “Hello, Free Jim. Uncle Hiram wants me to sell two of our horses. A matched pair. Know anyone in the market?”

“The colts, right? The ones Reuben broke?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And now your uncle wants them gone.”

“Yes, sir.”

He studies me close, rubbing at his jaw. Softly, he says, “That Hiram Westfall owns you right proper now, doesn't he?”

His words give my belly a squirm. Too loudly, I say, “Seems like everyone around here is making plans to head west.”

“Indeed. The sooner you get to a gold field, the better you'll do. Folks in this town remember that.”

Free Jim glances around the store, but we're alone. Everyone is outside listening to the speech. He says, “McCauley was asking around town after his boy. Seems to think his son ran off to Savannah, hoping to catch a boat and sail halfway round the world. Don't suppose you know anything about that.”

I pretend to misunderstand. “Mr. McCauley spoke to me at the funeral, said the same thing.”

“Might have been a mistake for Jefferson to go.”

I step toward the counter, getting right in his face. “You
know
he has reasons to strike out for himself.”

He holds up his hands. “That's not what I'm saying.”

“Then what?”

He considers me, as if deciding something.

Free Jim reaches beneath the counter and pulls out an old farmer's almanac, the kind Daddy always kept lying around for easy reference. He opens the cover, revealing a square of thick folded paper tucked inside. He unfolds the square and spreads it out. “This is Mitchell's Reference and Distance
Map, the 1846 edition, with an inset for Texas, California, and Oregon.”

I peer at it. “Oh?”

“We're right here.” A large blunt finger drops onto the section labeled “Georgia.” The states are marked in bold outline, each one filled with brightly colored counties. His voice drops to a whisper. “Now, when someone leaves Georgia, and they don't want anyone finding them . . .”

His voice trails off. I swallow a lump in my throat. “Like Jefferson, you mean.”

“Sure, like Jefferson.” His fingertip traces across Georgia to the ocean. “Say the rumors are true and Jefferson is going to Savannah. That's trying to get to California all in one jump. A temptation, to be sure. But he'll have to wait there to find passage, and waiting somewhere is asking to get caught. Even if he does find passage, the ships will have records. Passenger manifests that anyone could look at.”

“How should he do it?” My next words are timid. “Head for Independence?”

“Sure.” The map keeps trying to fold back up. Free Jim grabs a boot from the shelf behind him and plunks it on the counter to hold down the edge. “If Jefferson is smart, and I reckon he is, then he should consider his journey in stages. The first thing is to get to Chattanooga. There's only one road across the mountains. Now, let's say somebody's looking for him.”

“Like . . . his da.”

“Like his da. Any store or tavern or farm he stops in, people
might recognize him. So he's got to camp out. But the local pattyrollers know all the places to hide. So the faster he gets away from here, the better.” He pauses, leans forward. “The most dangerous part of the journey is close to home.”

Daddy always said the slave patrols were little better than bandits. For the right price, they're happy to go after just about anybody, and Uncle Hiram wouldn't think twice about sending them after me. I bend over the map, memorizing the towns on the way to Chattanooga—Prince Edward, Ellijay, Dalton.

Jim slides his finger westward over the mountains. “Let's say Jefferson makes it to Chattanooga. From there he's got two choices: He can go overland, through Kentucky and to the Ohio River. Or he can get on a flatboat or steamer and ride down the Tennessee River.”

“Which is better?”

“He should go by land. He can keep moving, not get tied down where someone might catch him. It's hard to run when you're on a boat, unless you can walk on water like our Lord.”

I choke on a laugh.

Free Jim's return smile quickly fades as he indicates a twisting blue line that cuts the map in half.

“The Mississippi River?” I ask. It looks huge. Even on paper.

“Yep. Everyone going west must cross the Mississippi eventually. By ferry or steamer.”

“Is that . . . expensive?”

He nods. “The steamer surely is. And bound to get more
expensive every month. By this time next year, fares will be double, at least. But once crossed, Independence is just a state away.”

I study the roads that lead from Chattanooga, but there are too many places to remember. As long as I go north and west, I'll get there.

Jim spreads his hands on the map, one thumb on Dahlonega and the other on Independence. “If Jefferson's all alone for this part of the journey, he'll need to be full of care. You understand me?”

“I understand.”

“But if he reaches Independence and joins a wagon train, the guides will take him the rest of way.”

“So, the wagon journey is the easy part,” I say.

He shrugs. “I wouldn't say that.”

I fall back on my heels, shoulders slumping. The country is bigger than I thought it was, and I'm going to need more money than I realized.