“Sorry, girl, but everyone knows that pretty coat of yours.”
Working fast, I smear mud down the side of her neck. She nips the space near my ear in warning. That’s the thing about Peony—she’s sweet most of the time, but if you do something she doesn’t like, she’ll let you know. Daddy used to say she and I got along so well because we had a few things in common.
“Hold still!” I rub a little mud on her flanks, wary of an impending kick. When I smooth it down her rear legs, she whips her tail around to swat my face.
I give her reins some slack and step back to see how she looks.
“Blast.”
It’s only my first day on the road, and I’ve already made a huge mistake. She’s exactly the same horse as before, with her proud bearing and corn silk mane and a glorious tail that almost brushes the ground. Now, she’s muddied up in a way that will draw even more attention, and the precious time I spent disguising her is a total waste.
I start to climb back on, but I pause, foot in the stirrup. There’s another bit of business I should take care of while we’re stopped. The delay might add up to another huge mistake, but ignoring the task could be worse.
Every decision I make right now feels like the wrong one. I’ll just have to be quick.
I hobble Peony and grab my woman’s clothes and shorn braid from the saddlebag. It’s an armful, even rolled up tight as it is, with the corset, the full skirt, and the petticoats. The whole mess is probably worth a decent sum, and for the hundredth time I consider selling it somewhere. For the hundredth time I come to the same conclusion: It would seem mighty odd for a young boy to walk into a store with a bundle of female fixings to sell. They’d take him for a thief for sure—which might make them look close enough to realize he wasn’t a boy at all.
Using a small branch and the heels of my boots, I dig at the ground, squelching up mud and rotting leaves. I don’t have time to make a proper hole, so I settle for a small depression. I drop in my parcel of hair and clothing.
I stare down at it too long, feeling strange. The edge of the skirt’s ruffle has started to escape the bundle, and the shiny braid winks up at me. It’s like I’m burying half a girl here.
Peony’s snort moves me to action. I cover it all up best I can with more mud, add a few deadfall sticks and rocks, which ought to hold if a big rain comes this way. My saddlebags are a lot lighter now. I mount up and kick Peony forward, but my back twitches, like that buried bundle is staring after me and my ill-fitting trousers.
The mud dries on Peony’s coat, making her skin twitch like it’s covered in flies. She shows her annoyance in a hundred tiny ways, from fighting her bridle to flicking her tail.
“That was a bad idea, and I’m sorry. I promise I’ll clean you up as soon as I can.”
She tosses her head as if to yank the reins from my hands. “Stop it!” I snap. “I’m doing the best I can, you ungrateful, mule-headed . . .” My tirade fades as quickly as it came. Yelling at my only companion won’t do me any good.
Night falls. I don’t dare gallop her in the dark, but neither do I dare stop. At least Peony’s shiny coat is becoming a colorless gray in the gloom. No one would recognize her now.
My tiny spark of relief is doused by the clop-clop of hooves. Someone approaches.
Everything inside me yearns to dash for the woods and hide, but I have to face people eventually. I nudge my hat brim low, sit straight in the saddle, and trust the moonlight to hide what it must.
A silhouette appears around the bend and rides toward me at a leisurely pace. Not anyone I know, thank the stars. He’s gray and heavily whiskered, and he stoops low over a swaybacked mare. A huge tear in his hat has been hastily stitched with dark thread.
“Howdy,” he says, with a tip of his hat.
“Howdy,” I reply, tipping my own hat. One little word, but it sets my heart pounding fit to tumble out of my chest.
We pass each other. I stare straight ahead as if I haven’t a care in the world, as if I’ve every right to this road. I imagine him calling out at my back. What’s a young lady like you doing out here all alone? Why is your horse so muddy?
He doesn’t. The sound of his mount’s hooves fades, but it’s a while before I breathe easy. “We did it,” I whisper after a spell. “I don’t think he suspected a thing.”
We press on. The air chills. Peony’s steady steps echo around us. Except for that man with the mended hat, I haven’t seen a single soul, which is odd, even for winter. I’m fretting all over again that I’ve gone the wrong way, when I catch the sharp scent of burning pine. Sure enough, we round the next hill and find Prince Edward.
Houses cluster along a western slope, smoke rising from their chimneys and lanterns glowing in their windows. Below them are a white clapboard church, a small store, and a two-story tavern. Lanterns swing from the tavern’s front post, illuminating the double doors and wooden stoop. Everything I need is there—oats for Peony and supper for me. But I don’t dare go inside.
A group of men stagger from the tavern door, where they pause to don their hats and pull out their pipes. Coals glow in their pipe bowls, and sickly sweet tobacco smoke fills the air.
Quickly, I aim Peony away. We’ll circle the town, keeping to the shadows. Then we’ll find a place to camp for the night.
Too late. “Hey, boy,” one calls out.
I pretend not to hear, but my neck prickles, and my grip on the reins tightens. Peony sidesteps in response.
“Boy, I’m talking to you. What’s your name?”
I recognize his voice now— It’s Abel Topper, from the funeral. The one I saw talking to Uncle Hiram.
I hold Peony to a smooth, casual pace, but my mind races. Topper was a foreman at one of the mines before it dried up. His men—all desperate for work—could be here with him. My uncle might have hired them to look for me. Why did I waste time with that awful mud?
“Leave the boy alone,” someone says.
Topper’s voice drifts toward me. “That looks like Lucky Westfall’s mare, is all I’m saying. Hiram said he’d sell her to me.”
“Topper, you’re too drunk to know a mare from a mosquito.”
“Not that drunk. What’s she doing out here? I’m telling you . . .”
Abel Topper’s voice fades with distance, but I feel his eyes boring holes into my back, and I don’t know what to do about it except to keep us walking. We pass the stable, the church, the store, and a few more small houses. Once we’re out of sight, I kick Peony into a run, urging her to go faster and then faster still.