I lace them up and stand. They feel funny on my feet—pinched and tiny and fragile. “Perfect fit,” I say with a forced smile. “Thank you.”

He beams. “You’re welcome.” He stands and circles the table to get a better view. “They are lovely on you.”

Then, faster than a swooping hawk, he scoops up Daddy’s boots from the floor where I left them.

“What are you doing?” I demand.

“You don’t need these anymore.”

“Of course I do. All the mud and—”

He opens the door to the box stove and thrusts them inside, slams the door shut, latches it.

“No!” I reach for the stove, but he blocks me, batting my hands away. “Daddy?” I whisper. I try once more to lunge past him, but Hiram grabs me by the throat and shoves me away. I collide with the table, scooting it back several inches.

While I struggle to rise, he stands sentry before the stove, arms crossed, face resolute. “You’ll wear the other boots I gave you, the ones you ruined, when you visit the mine. These you will save for special occasions.”

I should say something back, but if I open my mouth, all that will come out is a scream.

“Leah, never mention Reuben again, do you hear me? Never.”

I give up trying to stand and fall to my knees instead, sobs quaking in my chest, tears free falling down my cheeks. Grief is a whipping whirlwind inside me, like gold gone sour. Because my daddy was the best person I knew, and I’ve lost him all over again.

Something pops inside the stove. Burning leather has a peculiar smell, different from wood.

A minute passes. Two. Then Hiram’s footsteps stomp across the room and he slams the door as he leaves.

I jump up and use the tongs to pull Daddy’s ruined boots from the stove. They’re stiff and shrunken and blackened, the edges crumbled to ash. I leave a nasty soot mark on the table when I set them down, but I’ll worry about that later.

I allow them to cool awhile, then carefully peel back the charred leather tongue and find what I’m looking for, still lodged in the toe. Some of the tiny nuggets stick to one another, the result of impurities melting a little, but the gold is intact. I upend the boot and shake the gold out onto a napkin, but my sense tells me there’s still some stuck inside, so I take a finger and sweep around until I’ve recovered every possible speck.

My finger smarts from the still too-hot leather as I ponder a moment. If I save these boots, my uncle—I refuse to think on him as my father—will find them and throw them away again. So I can’t hide the gold inside them. Maybe the best place is the box stove, after all. It’s rare for a fire to get hot enough to melt gold.

Then again, I don’t know how often the stove is cleaned out. And what if I need to grab the gold fast, someday soon? There’ll be no time to let it cool, no way to carry what would amount to a burning coal.

Under my mattress will have to do for a hiding place again, though I wouldn’t put it past Hiram to search my bedroom on occasion. Inside the mattress would be better, but I’ve no knife to cut with. Hiram has been careful—there is not a single knife in this cabin that I can see, not even to cut food. He tidies up his desk and takes his letter opener with him every time he leaves.

But maybe not this time. I upset him quite a bit.

My gaze falls upon Hiram’s writing desk. I dash toward it and fling open the single drawer. Sure enough, a bronze letter opener gleams at me from inside. The handle is shaped like a sword hilt, so that it looks like a tiny dagger. I grab it and run my finger down its length.

A tiny, dull dagger. But it’s hard and pointy, and I bet I can make do.

I run to my bedroom, fling off the quilt, and lift the mattress. I stab into the ticking with the letter opener, then poke my finger into the hole and pull and yank until it’s large enough for my napkin-wrapped gold.

I work the tiny bundle through the hole, then smooth out the fabric as best I can before letting the mattress fall back into place. I flip the quilt over the bed and stand back.

Perfect. Without my witchy sense, I’d never know what treasure lay hidden inside.

I return to the writing desk. Before replacing the letter opener, I hold it up for a moment, staring at it. It’s too dull to cut with, but a strong girl like me could still do a lot of damage with its hard point. If I don’t find my guns or a proper knife, this might end up my weapon of choice.

It was lying to the right of the papers when I found it, cocked at a slight diagonal. I put the letter opener in the drawer, hoping I’m remembering correctly, and slide the drawer home.

I grab Daddy’s boots from the table, and I close my mind, my heart, as I toss them back into the box stove, then close and latch the door. Using one of Mary’s dishrags, I wipe the soot from the table, dampening with water and scrubbing to get it all up.

There. I have done something. Something that is not wallowing in despair.

The next day passes as though nothing happened. Wilhelm and I visit the mine, and I wear the ruined boots just like Hiram ordered. I wave to Jefferson as we pass the arrastra on our way back. It’s a casual wave, a wave of nothingness, as if every fiber of my being is not yearning to close the distance between us.

Mary comes by to make supper—a chicken soup with raw egg drizzled into it and cooked. Hiram and I eat in silence while the box stove sizzles and pops, continuing to burn my daddy’s boots to cinders.

When he’s finished eating, Hiram wipes his mouth with a napkin, folds it neatly in front of him, and says, “Take a walk with me.”

“All right,” I say meekly.

“Change into your new dress first.”

My blood boils, but I say, “Yes, sir.”

I change quickly, and it’s a bit odd to remove one dress and replace it with its identical copy. But the fabric is brighter, the hem clean and perfect, and Hiram is beaming when I take his proffered arm.

“You look beautiful,” he says, reaching up to touch a lock of my hair.

I don’t trust myself to open my mouth without screaming, so I say nothing as he pushes through the door and leads me into the late-evening darkness.

Several of the foremen sit outside their barracks at a table, playing cards and drinking from mugs and laughing. Mary is sitting in someone’s lap again. She wears his too-large hat on her head, and her fingers are tangled in his hair.

To our left, the Chinese area of camp is equally busy. The clang of metal indicates the blacksmith is working into the night. Several sit around his tent, probably taking advantage of the warmth of his bellows, including the old man from the tent full of jars. He studies me as we walk, sizing me up like I’m a prize heifer.