“Hey, always jump from the back of the wagon, away from the wheels,” Jefferson says, riding up.
“Yes, I will,” Therese says, looking chagrined for all of a split second before brightening. “I’ll ask my brothers if they want to come.”
She walks beside Andy and Olive as we all catch up to the Hoffmans’ second wagon, which is being driven by Martin and Luther, the two oldest boys at thirteen and twelve, respectively. They’re already taller than me, with broad shoulders and sandy hair like their father’s. A thump from the back of the wagon indicates that Carl and Otto, the youngest boys, might be playing inside.
There’s no sign of Doreen, who’s usually out walking. She’s the youngest at five years, close in age to Olive, and the two have become playmates, even though Mrs. Joyner thinks Doreen is not well-groomed. “Not a proper lady” is how she puts it, though how anyone can be a proper lady at the age of five is beyond me.
As I steer Peony alongside the wagon, Doreen comes into view, and my stomach drops into my toes.
She rides on the tongue behind the oxen, her bonnet hanging down her back. Luther and Martin shout encouragement while she bounces up and down, laughing like she’s on a hobbyhorse. Nothing keeps her there but the grip of her own tiny hands. The wagon hits a rut, and she teeters precariously a moment before straightening.
“Doreen!” Therese cries out. “What are you doing?”
Doreen turns at her sister’s voice. She swings her leg over the tongue to hop down, but her ankle snags, and she starts to list.
“Yaw!” I shout, spurring Peony on.
“Stop the wagon!” Jefferson yells. “Now!”
Peony trusts me and leaps toward the oxen. We pull parallel to Doreen. I stand in my stirrups and reach between the wagon and the oxen for Doreen’s dress. It brushes my fingertips. She falls, and I fall after her. My shoulder bashes against the wagon’s tongue as I finally grasp her skirt. The ground knocks the air out of me, but I wrap my arms around the girl, curl up to protect her, and roll us both to the side. Dirt fills my mouth as I press us flat. The wagon’s axle passes over my head. The sharp iron edge of the wheel snags the flap of my coat and pulls it halfway over my head. The coat catches on my armpit, drags us forward. Gravel grinds into my side.
“Whoa!” yells Jefferson. The wheels slow. Finally, the wagon creaks to a stop.
Doreen and I are both breathless. “Are you all right?” I gasp.
She looks at me with big blue eyes and nods.
Hubbub is all around us. People come running; boots kick up dust at my nose. Jefferson is shouting my name. Therese is shouting for Doreen.
“Can you roll the wagon off my coat?” I ask. My voice feels funny in my head, like it’s coming from far away.
Pairs of boots line up behind the wagon. It inches forward, and the constriction under my arms releases. Doreen and I crawl out. She darts over to her daddy, who sweeps her up. A raw scrape covers her cheekbone, but otherwise she seems unharmed.
A dozen questions fly at once, and I have trouble parsing them.
“She’s fine,” I say to the frightened faces around me. “I don’t think she was hurt at all.”
“Not her. You,” Jefferson says, terror in his eyes.
I follow his gaze, and that of everyone else, and look down.
Shame floods me like water through a millrace. My monthly bleeding has started. My trousers are soaked with red, mixed with dirt.
No, that’s not it. I stagger, and Jefferson leaps forward to catch me. I’m hurt, somehow. I don’t remember exactly when, but my right leg doesn’t feel right, and the edges of the world are suddenly blurred.
“Jeff,” I whisper. “What’s wrong with me?”
“Get Jasper!” he yells. “Do it! Now!”
I can’t get enough air, and neither leg will hold my weight. Jefferson lowers me to the earth, saying, “You’re okay, Lee. You’re okay, you hear me?”
I vaguely note several people are standing over me. Therese, Mrs. Robichaud, Luther, a couple of the Missouri men. They part to make way for Jasper, who drops to his knees and reaches for the waist of my trousers.
“No!” I cry. He can’t strip me here, right in front of everyone.
“I need to stitch you up, Lee. You’ve got a bad gash on your hip, I think. And your ankle is already swelling, so we’re going to cut off your boot. Just hold still.”
“He has to do it, Lee,” says Jefferson. “He has to. No matter what, you understand?”
They’ll see I’m a girl. Everyone will. I reach down with useless hands to bat him away. “Please . . .” My lips struggle to find the words. Don’t take off my trousers. Don’t tell them. Don’t . . .
What comes out is: “Don’t cut Daddy’s boots.”
My vision goes fuzzy-red, and the world is snuffed like a candle flame.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I open my eyes to gentle lantern light. I’m sunken into a feather mattress. The bows of a wagon curve above me.
“You wake yourself!” says Mrs. Robichaud. She looms over me with a canteen. “Drink,” she orders.
I lift my head. The moment the cool water slides down my throat, I start gulping.
She laughs. “Jasper will be glad to know you drink so much.”
Jasper. My last memory is of him readying to strip my clothes in front of everybody.
“What happened?” I ask tremulously. “Did I . . . Does everybody know . . .”
“That you are a young lady?” She waves her hand as waving it off. “Bien sûr. But you will be glad to know that Jasper fixed you. You had a bad slicing. From hip to knee. Never have I seen so much blood! The wagon wheel, I think. And you twisted your ankle, but it is not broken.”
I reach for my thigh and find thick bandages there. I’m wearing a long, white shirt. Henry’s, I’d wager. My legs and feet are bare but for the bandages.
“How long?” I ask.
“Just a day. Jasper forced some laudanum into you, so you’d sleep. And so you’d stop bleating about your boots.”
I lurch up.
She puts a hand on my chest and pushes me back. “Don’t worry yourself. Jefferson wouldn’t let Jasper cut them. He insisted.”
“Oh. All right.”
“Mr. Robichaud and me, we take good care of you.”
It’s odd that I’m here instead of with the Joyners, who are my employers. Or maybe not so odd. They probably refused to help, once they knew.
“Merci,” I tell her. Merci. Danke. Thank you. It’s a good thing there are lots of ways to say such an important thing.
“I sent Therese to bring you some undergarments. It will be nice to see you in skirts, finally.”
I gape at her. “You knew?”
“Bien sûr.”
Her smile is kind, which does not reassure me. “How long have you known I’m a girl?”
“A woman. You’re a woman.” She pauses. “Since the first time I saw you, I think.”
“Oh, no.” I pinch the bridge of my nose between thumb and forefinger. “Who else?”
“My husband noticed too. The college men—”
I wince. “I thought they might have figured it out. Back when we took off the Major’s leg. Did everybody know?”
“No, that’s all.” She frowns. “Reverend Lowrey says he knew all along, but I think he does not tell the truth.” She sits across from me in the tiny space and folds her hands on her lap. “And of course, Jefferson.”
“We grew up together.”
“Yes. It is obvious. You do things together without words. Like the way you went for Doreen while he went for the oxen. You would have much worse than a gash if not for that yo
ung man.” She reaches forward and strokes my cheek with a forefinger. “Poor chérie.”
A thump on the back of the wagon makes me jump. Therese’s head pops over the edge, and she tosses a bundle of frilly fabric into the wagon. She sees me awake and gives me a relieved smile.
Mrs. Robichaud grabs the bundle and shakes it out, revealing white drawers with lace trim and a ribbon tie of yellow silk. They don’t have a speck of dirt or the slightest wear at the hem. Therese must have been saving them.
“Therese, I couldn’t.”
“Oh, yes, you could. You saved my sister, and you will wear them or I will feel bad.”
Still, I hesitate.
“Jasper cut yours off,” she adds. “You really need to take them.”
“I have something for you too,” Mrs. Robichaud says, pulling another bundle from an open trunk beside her. It’s a yellow calico skirt with a ruffled hem and enough pleats that I could ride Peony while wearing it.
“I’m sorry I don’t have petticoats to go with it,” Mrs. Robichaud says.
“That’s perfect for you,” Therese says. “You have those pretty golden eyes. Like tiger’s eye gemstones, Jefferson always says.”
Jefferson says that about my eyes? “Well . . .” I swallow hard. “Danke, Therese. Merci, Mrs. Robichaud.”
“Call me Lucie.”
Therese ties the canvas tightly shut at the rear of the wagon, then she clambers over me and does the same at the front. “I’ll help you change,” she says. “We need to be careful of those bandages.”
I sit up, wincing at the sharp pain in my thigh.
“Jasper says no walking for you for a few days,” Mrs. Robichaud says. “You must ride in the wagon or on your horse.”
Therese holds up the drawers while I put my first leg through. “Why did you do it?” she asks. “Wear men’s clothes?”
“Uh . . .” I’m not sure how to answer.
Mrs. Robichaud—Lucie—says, “My sister married a voyageur, a trapper. They trapped along the Hudson Bay. She didn’t want to stay home while he went out hunting, so she sometimes dressed like a man and went with him. When he died from a hernie rupture—”
“A ruptured hernia?”
“That’s it, a ruptured hernia. She continued his work for several years. Lived with his sister.”
“It’s not like that,” I say.
“What happened?”
I open my mouth to spin a tall tale. With a start, I realize I don’t have to lie anymore. The truth is the perfect explanation. It’s a relief to say: “My mama and daddy were murdered.”
Therese gasps.
Saying it out loud brings back the images: Daddy lying dead on the doorstep, Mama propped against the woodpile, trying to breathe. “My uncle Hiram, Daddy’s brother, did it. He as much as admitted it to me, but he’s such a fine gentleman—rich, handsome, educated. No one would have believed me. And then suddenly he was my guardian and our whole farm belonged to him, and I didn’t know what he was going to do with me. . . .”
“Quelle horreur,” Lucie murmurs.
I take a deep breath and slow down. “Truth is, I wanted to go west. My daddy was a gold miner. I grew up knowing everything about gold. So did Jeff. He was the only person I trusted, and he was going to California. I needed to leave town, quick and quiet. My uncle was—is—looking for me, you see. And then I got robbed—my daddy’s Hawken rifle, almost all my money . . .”
“No wonder you chose a disguise,” Lucie says.
“I didn’t mean to become a liar.” Tears well up in my eyes.
Therese’s hands tying the ribbons of my drawers have stilled. “I would have been so scared,” she says.
I consider pretending to be brave for all of two seconds, but I’m done lying. “I was afraid the whole time. Afraid I was going to be found out, afraid of the men who robbed me, afraid that I was going to be alone forever. And then once I started pretending, I was scared to let . . .”
My teeth are suddenly chattering. I cross my arms around my waist and squeeze, like something terrible will come out if I let go.
Lucie puts an arm around me. I lean my head on her shoulder, and I feel such a pang for Mama it’s hard to breathe.
She squeezes me tight. “Is Lee your real name?”
I nod against her shoulder. “Well, it’s Leah. Leah Westfall. But everyone always called me Lee.”
“Then I will call you Lee. But if you want to change it, all you have to do is say so.”
I look up at her, confused. “What else would it be?”
Therese sighs dreamily. “I’ve always liked the name Anneliese. If I could change my name, I’d be Anneliese.”
“Who do you want to be, Lee?” Lucie says.
It sounds like something Jasper said to me. I didn’t understand then, and I don’t understand now. “What do you mean?”
“We’ll get you some clean trousers, if you want. And when you leave this wagon, everyone here will go on looking the other way. What you do when you get to California is your business.”
“Oh, the Missouri men will not look the other way,” Therese says. “Trust me on that.”
“But they’ll behave,” Lucie says.
Therese and I exchange a look.
“That’s very optimistic, ma’am,” I say. “Also, I can’t imagine Mr. Joyner—”
“Mr. Joyner has no business judging anyone,” Lucie snaps.
I recoil, startled at her burst of anger. “Why do you say that?”
“That man, he was hiding in his wagon for weeks because he had la rougeole. Can you believe?”
I blink. “Wait. He had the measles?”
Therese rolls her eyes. “He says he was hiding so no one else would catch it.”
“Such a spirit of kindness,” Lucie says dryly.
“And he’s lucky his wife and children didn’t,” Therese adds. “Especially with Mrs. Joyner in the family way. But I think he was ashamed.”
“And rightly so,” Lucie says. “Anyway, he should not judge. You have done your share, it is the truth. You’ve worked as hard as anybody, and harder than some. What do you want?”
What do I want? To stop lying, for sure and certain. But I also want to keep greasing the axle and riding Peony and hunting game and earning my own way. “I don’t mind working. I mucked stalls and found . . .er, panned for gold and went hunting on our homestead while growing up. But I did it as me.” As a girl with gold-witching magic. “As a girl.”
“A woman,” Lucie insists.
Therese helps me to my feet. My leg throbs, but it bears my weight. Holding Therese’s shoulders, I step into Lucie’s skirt. My man’s shirt tucks in nicely, and Lucie helps me tie the skirt in back. I twist in place, letting it swish around.
I take a deep breath, the first really deep breath I can remember in a long time. It feels like I’m back in my own skin, after six months of wearing someone else’s.
“Here are your boots,” Therese says, pushing them forward. “I got out most of the blood, but they have a few stains now.”
I slide them on, gratitude clogging my throat.
“It’s all right if you want to hide in here a bit,” Lucie says.
“No use putting it off,” I say, but I stare at the canvas opening, unable to reach for it.
Lucie loosens it, and light pours in. “Be careful with that leg,” she says.
I blink into the sunshine, bracing myself for rifles and pitchforks and angry glares. Except for Peony, the wagon circle is empty, the cook fires cold. A cloud of dust rises in the distance, back the way we came.
I climb over, using the toolbox as a step, so I don’t have to jump far with my bad leg. Therese and Lucie climb out behind me.
“Where is everyone?”
“The men spotted a herd of pronghorn,” Lucie says. She holds her
hand over her eyes and stares into the distance.
“Antelope?” I slam my hat onto my head, gingerly lower myself down, and hobble over to Peony. I grab the saddle; Mr. Joyner’s rifle is gone.
“Where are you going?” Lucie asks, voice full of concern.
“To make sure we get one.” Really, I just want to be riding Peony again because I’m never uncomfortable on her back, no matter what I’m wearing. “We haven’t had fresh meat for more than a week.”
I saddle her quick, mount up, and adjust the skirt to drape comfortably. The fabric flaps in the wind, but Peony doesn’t seem to mind. The ankles of my boots show, but it’s nothing everyone hasn’t been seeing for months.
“Watch the leg,” Lucie says, but she’s grinning ear to ear.
“Good luck, Lee!” Therese says, and her gaze has a bit of longing in it as she watches me ride off.
Outside the wagon circle, Mrs. Joyner, Mrs. Hoffman, and the Major are watching the children play. I wave as I ride by, and after a moment’s pause, the women wave back. Major Craven stares longest, but eventually he waves too.
Peony sees the other horses ahead and pulls at the bit. I let her loose as gunshots crack the air. A small herd of antelope leaps away. The men give chase, but the herd is too quick, and they pull up after only a few strides.
“Did we get any?” I say, riding into the group. I am going to brazen it out, even if my skirt feels like a giant flag.
“Hey, Lee,” Jefferson says, all business. Like there’s nothing different about me at all.
The bachelors tip their caps, wearing small, secretive smiles. Mr. Robichaud nods to me. Mr. Joyner’s face is mottled with scabs, his eyes red-rimmed, his brows furrowed, but he nods too. Mr. Hoffman says, “Lee, I want to thank you—”
“Nice skirt, Georgia,” says Jonas Waters, Frank Dilley’s second-in-command.
I frown. “Never mind that. Did we get any?”
“Tom winged one,” Jefferson says. “But it didn’t go down. The others leaped away too fast.”
Once pronghorns spook, lightning can’t catch them. The herd is disappearing over a low hill, but a few stragglers lag behind.
“They’ll stop at the river. Let’s cut around that way, stay downwind, see if we can get a second shot.” I head off as soon as I say it, like I have on a dozen other hunts. I glance back over my shoulder. Everyone is right behind me except Mr. Joyner, who hesitates before deciding to follow.