I frown.
“She should put it right back where she found it,” Mama says.
“No!” I protest, and Daddy gives me the mind-your-mother-or-else look. I swallow hard and try to lower my voice, but I’ve never mastered the gentle firmness of Mama’s way. I’m a too-loud-or-nothing kind of girl. “I mean, if we can’t keep it, then the McCauleys should have it. Their cabin is in bad shape, and their milk cow died last winter, and . . . I’ll take it back. I’ll give it over to Jefferson’s da.”
Mama carries her pot to the box stove and sets it on top. “What will you tell him?” she asks, giving the stew a quick stir.
“The truth. That I was hunting, that I tracked my wounded buck onto his claim and chanced upon a nugget.”
Mama frowns. “Knowing Mr. McCauley, the story will be all over town within a day.”
“So? No one needs to know I witched it up.”
She slams the pot lid into place and turns to brandish her wooden spoon at me. “Leah Elizabeth Westfall, I will not have that word in my house.”
“It’s not a bad word.”
“If anyone hears it, even in passing, they’ll get the wrong idea. I know we live in modern times, but no one suffers a . . . that word. There’s no forgiveness for it. No explaining that will help. I know it full well.”
Mama does this sometimes. She alludes to something that happened to her when she was a girl, something awful. But I know better than to press for details, because it won’t get me anything but more chores or an early trip to bed.
“And I’ll not remind the entire town that we send our fifteen-year-old daughter out hunting on the Lord’s Day,” she continues, still waving that spoon. “Our choices are our choices, and our business is our business, but no good will come from throwing it in people’s faces.”
“I’ll take it back,” Daddy says. “I’ll tell him I was the one out hunting.”
“Reuben, you can hardly walk,” Mama says. “No one will believe it.”
“I’ll wait a few days. Let this cough settle. Then I’ll go. Maybe I’ll do it right before heading to Charlotte.”
This is what Daddy tells us every day. That when his cough “settles,” he’ll take to the road with our bag of gold. He’ll have it assayed at the mint in Charlotte, North Carolina, where no one knows us and no one will ask questions.
“Sure, Daddy.” I don’t dare catch Mama’s eye and give space for the worry growing in both our hearts.
I rise from the table and walk with heavy steps to Daddy’s rocking chair. I pull the nugget from my pocket and place it in his outstretched palm. The gold sense lessens as soon as it leaves my hand, and for the briefest moment I am bereft, like I’ve lost a friend.
“Well, I’ll be,” he says breathlessly, turning it over to catch the morning light streaming through our windows. “Isn’t it a beauty?”
“Sure is,” I agree. It’s so much more than beautiful, though. It’s food and shelter and warmth and life.
His bushy eyebrows knit together as he looks at me, straight on. “This nugget is nothing, Lee. Even your magic is nothing. You’re a good girl and the best daughter. And that? That’s something.”
I can’t even look at him. “Yes, Daddy.”
I return to the table to finish cleaning my rifle. It’s a good time for quiet thinking, so I think hard and long. If Mama won’t let us sell our gold dust, and Daddy refuses to let me keep that nugget, then I need to figure out another way to make ends meet.
I pause, my rag hovering over the wooden stock. “I could do it,” I say.
“What’s that, sweet pea?” Daddy says.
“I could take our gold to get assayed in North Carolina. I’ll drive Chestnut and Hemlock. The colts’d be glad for—”
“Absolutely not,” Mama says.
“It’s nice of you to offer,” Daddy says in a kinder tone. “But the road is no place for a girl all alone.”
“You’d be robbed for sure,” Mama adds. “Or worse.”
I sigh. It was worth a try.
Mama’s gaze on my face softens. “You are such a help, my Leah, and I love you for it. But you would do too much if I let you.”
“Tell you what,” Daddy says. “When this cough settles, maybe your mama will let you come with me.”
“Maybe I would,” Mama says unconvincingly.
“I’d like that,” I say.
When this cough settles, when this cough settles, when this cough settles. I’ve heard it so many times it’s like a song in my head.
Maybe I’ll set traps this winter. Maybe we’ll have another big flood, which will give us an excuse to say we found more gold. Maybe our winter wheat will do better than expected. Maybe I’ll escape to Charlotte with that bag of gold and beg forgiveness afterward.
Maybe I’ll become a real witch, who can cast a spell that will keep our barn dry and fill our cellar.
Chapter Three
By morning, the air has warmed enough that fog slithers thick and blue through the creases of my mountains. Because of yesterday’s hunting success, Daddy lets me hitch Peony to the wagon and drive to school.
As soon as I pull up, I can tell something is amiss. Instead of pelting one another with snowballs or playing tag or hoops, the little ones stand clutched together for warmth, holding tight to their dinner pails, speaking in hushed tones. It’s like someone important has died, like the governor. Or even the president. But no, the courthouse flag is not at half-mast.
I hobble Peony and scan the schoolyard for Jefferson. He has a knack for seeing everything around him, and if anyone can speak truth to me, it’s him.
Annabelle Smith, the judge’s daughter, finds me first. “Well, if it isn’t Plain Lee!” she calls out. “Driving to school like the good boy she is.” The girls my age are clustered around her, and they giggle as I approach.
“You seen Jefferson?” I ask.
“Shouldn’t you be out hunting?” Her smile shows off two adorable dimples. God must have a wicked sense of humor to make such a devil of a girl look like such an angel. “Or mucking around in the creek?”
“Please, Annabelle,” I say wearily. “Not today. I just want to talk to my friend.”