I lean forward so that I’m right in his face. “If you don’t wish to allude, then you’d better stop talking.”

He retreats a step. “I’m neither impugning his good qualities nor denigrating his character.”

“You are! You are definitely impugning and denigrating.”

He holds up his Bible with both hands, like it’s a shield. “Let me start over again. What I’m trying to say is, Leah, it’s not our place to question God’s will, and it is clearly God’s will that the two of us become man and wife.”

It’s a testament to my fine character that I don’t smash that Bible right into his nose. “You wouldn’t know God’s will if it tipped its hat and said howdy. My answer to you now is no and will always be no.” I turn to walk away but pause. “Because you’ve been grieving, I’m going to forget you said anything to me tonight. But I don’t want you to bring it up again. Ever.”

I stomp back to the wagons hard enough to shake the ground.

Widow Joyner is repacking a trunk with clean clothes when I return. She looks up as I approach, and her expectant smile instantly disappears. “What happened?”

“The reverend and I had a theological disagreement that ended in a permanent schism.”

“So . . . no congratulations are in order?”

In answer, I lift the toolbox and slam it onto the wagon. I have too much to do to let that preacher waste any more of my time.

Jefferson is returning from the meadow where he’s been keeping an eye on the oxen. “Hey, Lee, will you—”

“I don’t want to talk right now.” I grab the grease bucket and crawl under the wagon to check the wheels.

Men. And their no-good, fool-headed proposals.

Chapter Thirty

The next morning, Fort Hall shrinks rapidly behind us. The animals have eaten their fill for the first time in weeks, if not months. The size of our company has doubled, because it now includes a group of settlers headed for Oregon, who will travel with us for a short while.

Major Craven tips his hat to me from the jockey box of the Joyners’ wagon. He took Henry’s suggestion, and Widow Joyner eagerly embraced it. That leaves me and Peony free to make our own way. I’m wearing Lucie’s skirt, but I have trousers on underneath so I can ride without raising too many eyebrows. Everyone I pass is cheerful and energized, waving and smiling.

Everyone but me. My return smiles are forced, and I find myself drifting farther and farther from the line of wagons, wanting a little open air to myself.

Jefferson and the sorrel mare come up beside us, and it’s fine as long as he’s quiet. Then he says, “Hey, Lee—”

“I don’t feel like talking or listening.”

“All right.”

I’m being unkind, but I can’t help it. I stare after him as he rides over to the Hoffmans’ wagon, and I’m screwing up my courage to apologize and explain, when he turns around and rides back, wearing a scowl as big as the western sky.

“They didn’t want to listen either,” he says.

I say nothing. I’m not sure I made the right choice in the Robichauds’ wagon. Now that I’m a girl, I’m treated like I’m nobody again, to be owned or herded or strung along, so helpless and awful that I must be redeemed or married off because it’s convenient for someone. And it doesn’t matter whether their intentions are wicked, like my uncle Hiram’s, or good—more or less—like Reverend Lowrey’s. It doesn’t even matter if it’s my best friend in the whole world.

It’s possible the person I’m most steamed at is Mrs. Joyner. She knew the reverend was going to propose. It didn’t matter that she desperately needs my help. It didn’t even matter that we have a contract. She was ready to hand me right over to that self-righteous son of a goat.

Just like the folks back home in Dahlonega. They were relieved when Uncle Hiram showed up to take charge of me and my homestead.

There’s not a place in the whole world where everyone isn’t willing—no, eager—to give a girl up to a man. I don’t want to be a boy again. I hate lying. But when I get to California, I might not have a choice—not if I want to belong only to myself.

At noon we cross Ford Creek. The grass is still good, and we let the animals graze for an extra half hour before continuing. By nightfall we reach the bluff above the Raft River and make camp. I spend extra time with Peony, making sure she’s fed and watered and thoroughly brushed. Since the Major joined our wagon, the families have started taking meals together. I’m still in no mood for company, so I put off joining them until I see the Robichauds seated around the fire. The Robichauds have always treated me well, no matter what I’m wearing. Lucie is the one who said I could be whoever I want.

“Saved some for you,” the Major says, handing me a tin cup with beef and onion soup.

“Thanks,” I mumble, and go sit beside Lucie.

“I’m glad you came back,” she says to me.

“There’s nowhere else to go out there,” I say.

“No, I mean, tonight. Tomorrow morning is our parting of the ways.”

I choke on my food. “What?”

“We’ve decided to head north for Oregon.”

“But why?”

Mr. Robichaud wipes his mouth with a kerchief. “General Loring made some good points yesterday. We’re looking for a better country to raise our sons. California sounds lawless and dangerous.”

“The world is dangerous,” I say, my voice shrill. Lucie puts a gentle hand on my knee, which makes me feel worse.

“It is,” Mr. Robichaud says. “Our family has made it this far without any losses.” He nods toward the Major, or maybe the Joyners. “Things are going to get worse before they get better for this group. With the cruelest part of the road ahead, we don’t want to push our luck.”

“But what about the gold?”

He puts an arm around his wife. “Family is more important than gold.”

But you’re my family, I want to say. They showed me kindness when no one else did. They kept my secret without a second thought.

I get to my feet and start undoing the buttons of Lucie’s yellow calico skirt. Several of the men avert their gazes. From the direction of the Missouri wagons comes a high whistle.

“Stop, please,” Lucie says.

“I’ve got on trousers,” I say.

“No, I want you to keep it. You’re so pretty in it.”

“I can’t!” I say. “It’ll just remind me of you and make me sad every time I see it.” I kick my way out of it, yank it up off the ground, fold it messily, and shove it into her hands. “Sorry I don’t have time to wash it.”

“It’s fine,” Lucie says.

There are tears in her eyes, and then there are tears in mine. She throws her arms around me and gives me such a hug. Not like Mama. I was my mama’s little girl, and she always held me gently, like I was precious and fragile. Lucie’s hug is fierce, as if I can’t be broken, and I hug her back just as tight.

She lets go, pushing the skirt into my hands. “Even if you never wear it again. Just so you remember me.”

“I . . . Merci,” I whisper, and hope she knows I’m not just saying it about the skirt.