When Mrs. Joyner sees that her husband has hired me, her eyes widen and she draws in a little breath. I brace myself for her protestations, but they never come, not even when Mr. Joyner offers to let Jefferson and me sleep beneath their wagon bed. It’s the first time I don’t leave town and go off on my own to spend the night.

We flip out our bedrolls so that they’re almost-but-not-quite touching. I spent so much time looking for him that it’s a delight to lie down side by side, to face each other in the dark. I’m not the least bit tired. I want to stay awake all night talking, soaking up the fact that he’s finally here.

“So,” he says in a low whisper. “Tell me about this uncle of yours.”

He’s the easiest person in the world to talk to, and now that we’re alone in the dark I don’t hesitate. “Hiram. Daddy’s brother. He . . . Well, I ran into Free Jim here in Independence.”

“You don’t say! What was he doing?”

“He sold his store. Now he’s on his way to California. You know he was great friends with Daddy, right?”

“Sure. Always thought that’s why your daddy stopped going to church after the Methodists split.”

“That’s right. Well, Jim knew a few things.” In as soft a voice as I can manage, I tell Jefferson everything: about Hiram being sweet on my mother, about how he lost both Mama and the land lottery to his brother, about how no one—not even my daddy—knows what happened to Mama in Boston that made her run away from her fine house and wealthy family to hack out a living in Indian country. I tell Jefferson every single thing, except the one thing I should never tell a soul: that of everything Hiram thought life had cheated him of, the witchy girl who could find gold might be the one that rankles him most.

“So,” Jefferson says after a long pause. “You think you’re rid of him?”

“Maybe.” Dread curls in my belly. “No. I’m not rid of him. But I don’t think Hiram wants to kill me. He wants . . . something else. He wouldn’t say what. After I ran away, he headed west by sea. He might reach California ahead of us.”

“You think he’ll be looking for you?”

“I know he will.”

“Huh.” He’s silent a moment. Then: “I don’t like it one bit.”

“Me neither.”

“And I don’t understand how a man could kill his own brother. Lucky Westfall of all people! Everyone liked him. Even my da.”

I choke a little on my next breath.

“Lee?”

“I miss him bad, Jeff.”

“I know.”

The wagon bed above us groans as one of the Joyners turns over. “Long day ahead,” Jefferson says. The weight of his hand descends onto my shoulder. He gives me a squeeze, and the gesture fills me up even better than Mrs. Joyner’s badly baked beans. “Lee, I’m glad you got away. Even gladder that you’re here.”

I smile into the dark. “Me too.”

“I won’t let that uncle of yours near you. I promise.”

“Thanks, Jeff.”

We say our good nights, and Jefferson turns his back to me and falls right asleep. I lie awake awhile, listening to the sounds of our camp—crackling fires and creaking wagons, shuffling oxen and bleating sheep, and my best friend breathing easy beside me.

When the bustle of morning rouses me, Jefferson is already gone. I shove on Daddy’s boots and scoot out from under the wagon to find our camp in a flurry. Everything is half loaded, and most of the oxen stand yoked before their wagons. It must have drizzled last night, because the ground is muddy and churned from all the goings-on. Mist chills the air, and gray hazes the sky, but everyone waves and smiles like it’s the Fourth of July. And maybe it is, in a way. Today begins a new life for many of us.

While Mrs. Joyner industriously burns flapjacks over the cook fire, a huckster with a coonskin cap weaves through the wagons, a wheelbarrow squelching through the mud before him, calling out, “Pickaxes, pans, and pickles for the argonauts!” He sells two pickaxes to a man in the wagon next to us, then he approaches Mrs. Joyner.

“Pickaxes, pans, and pickles for the argonauts! Surely you’d like a jar of pickles, ma’am? Argonauts are a notoriously hungry bunch.”

She recoils, bristling. “I’m no argonaut. I am a Methodist.”

The smile goes clean off his face. “Of course, ma’am. Your pardon, ma’am.” He tips his cap to her and moves on to the next wagon.

Major Craven makes rounds to check that everything is in order and to assign a line number. Jefferson returns with crumbs on his shirt—I assume he got breakfast with the Hoffmans—and together we hurry to load the Joyners’ many possessions before the Major reaches us.

Less than an hour later, Major Craven gives the call. My heart leaps. This is it. I’m going to California.

As the first wagon pulls out, I’m grinning like a cat who got into the cream. One by one the others fall into place until our company is a line stretching across the plain. The Joyners’ wagon is one of the last to go. Mr. Joyner drives the oxen, with Mrs. Joyner and the little ones walking beside it. Jefferson and I ride behind and slightly off to the left to avoid the mud kicked up by the rear wheels.

The sun breaks through the clouds as we leave Independence, sending streamers of bright yellow to cut the mist. I take off my hat and lift my face to the sun, feeling its warmth on my skin.

The first few days are pleasant enough, though I work as hard as I’ve ever worked. Every morning, Jefferson and I are the first to rise. Before the sun comes up, we check on the oxen and start the cook fire. When the sky brightens, the Joyner family climbs out of the wagon. Mrs. Joyner cooks breakfast, careful to ignore me, while Jefferson and I reload everything back into the wagon—a dresser and chairs, sacks of flour and coffee and bacon, traveling trunks—everything except the table with the checked cloth, which the family will have breakfast on. After the furniture is loaded, we roll the water barrel down to the river to refill it. Jefferson does that by himself some mornings so I can slip away from camp to take care of my personal needs.

When I return, Jefferson and I lift the heavy water barrel onto the sideboard. If we’re lucky, breakfast is ready, along with something hot to drink. Frost still covers the ground some mornings, and I’m cold down to my bones, so I don’t care whether it’s real coffee, or chicory root, or tea, though I always hope for coffee. Coffee is the one thing Mrs. Joyner gets right.