Walk on Earth a Stranger (4 page)

Gold sings to me from north of the orchard, from the vein that Daddy and I started working before the snow hit. Fainter, as if very small or from very far away, comes the one I'm looking for: a hymn of purity, a lump of sweetness in my throat. A nugget, maybe, but I'm hoping it's Mama's locket.

It's in the direction of the barn. I've already been to the barn. What did I miss?

That lump of sweetness pulls me back through the bare peach trees, through the icy brook. The sensation strengthens as I approach. It's not coming from inside the barn but behind it. Beyond the henhouse and near the woodpile.

The ground outside the henhouse is littered with down; something panicked the poor birds bad enough to send their feathers through the breathing holes. The sweetness in my throat turns sour. I force myself to walk the remaining steps.

I find her there, sitting with her back against the woodpile, legs outstretched, her skirt ridden up enough that a sliver of gray stocking shows above her boots. The locket that led me to her rests above her heart, sparkling in the sunshine. Below, her waist is soaked in blood. She's been gut-shot.

Her eyes flutter as I approach, and she lifts one hand in my direction. “Leah,” she whispers. “My beautiful girl.”

I rush forward and grab her hand. “I'll get Doc,” I say. “Just hold tight.” I try to pull away, but her grip is strong, though her gaze is so weak it can't seem to alight on anything for more than the space of a butterfly's touch.

“My strong girl. Strong, perfect . . .”

“Who did this to you?” Tears burn my eyes.

Her head lolls toward me, as if moving her neck can force her gaze in the direction her eyes cannot. “Trust someone. Not good to be as alone as we've been. Your daddy and I were wrong. . . .” Her words are coming slower and quieter.

“Mama?”

“Run, Lee. Go . . .”

Her chin hits her chest, and she says no more.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

I
need help. I should get the sheriff. Or Judge Smith. I
know
I should.

But all I can do is sit back on my heels and stare. It doesn't matter what I do next. Not a single thing in the whole world will make my mama and daddy any less dead. And once I get up and walk away, everything will be different. I want this moment, this in-between time, when I'm not quite an orphan and I'm not quite alone.

She's wearing her winter dress, the black wool. Her chin rests in the ruffles of the high collar. I avoid looking at her belly, instead letting my eyes drift down to the mud-splattered skirt. She tried to run.

I gently lower her skirt to cover her stockings and tuck it under her ankles so the breeze won't blow it back up. The shiny brown bun of her hair skews to the side. I reach up to rearrange a hairpin or two, but my shaking fingers just make a mess of everything.

I swallow hard. Mama had the most beautiful hair. Shimmering light brown, with hints of bronze and gold. It fell past her waist when it wasn't pinned.

The locket winks at me, bright against the black wool. She'd want me to have it. But removing it will be so final.

A twig snaps, and I shoot to my feet. The sound came from the woods behind the barn. It could have been a raccoon, or even a deer. Still, I imagine murderous eyes on me as I reach behind Mama's neck for the clasp. My hands struggle to make sense of it. I'm too afire with listening, ready to dart away at the slightest noise.

My fingertips tingle from gold as I work the clasp. It comes free, and I barely catch the charm before it slips off the chain. I shove both chain and locket into the pocket of my skirt.

“I'm so sorry, Mama,” I whisper. “I have to go.”

But go where? Everything is foggy and strange. All I know for sure is that Mama told me to run.

I can't just leave her here. It wouldn't be right. I need help. I need—

Jefferson! He'll know what to do. I could be at the McCauley claim and back in twenty minutes.

I shouldn't go unarmed.

I dash to the house and bang open the back door. Daddy has a special rack above the mantel for hanging our guns. We own three—an old long rifle with a bayonet, the newer Hawken rifle I always hunt with, and a cap-and-ball revolver. The long rifle and the Hawken give me distance and accuracy, but they can be awkward to load while bareback, especially
with my fingers trembling like they are. That leaves the revolver.

I grab it from the rack and palm the ivory grip. Something niggles at me while I stare down at it, like mosquitos in the back of my head. I think about Daddy, lying in a pool of his own blood. Bile rises in my throat, but I force it down.

That hole in his forehead. So tiny and perfect. The back of his skull is probably in tatters, but except for that hole, the front is as white and pristine as Mrs. Smith's alabaster vase.

No rifle would make such a tidy hole. My daddy was shot with a revolver, like the one I hold in my hand. No, maybe even a smaller gun, like one of those fancy new Colts. Do I know anyone who owns a new Colt revolver?

I sift through memories of everyone I know, but my mind fogs up again, and I can't do it for all the gold in the world.

Jefferson. I need Jeff.

I run out the front door, leaving it swinging in the wind, and I leap over the steps and over Daddy's body. I unhitch Peony, hike up my skirts, and I use the wagon wheel to vault onto her back.

The McCauley homestead is tucked into a dark holler between two birch-thick hills. Jefferson half cleared one of the hillsides and planted corn, now brown and shriveled with winter. But the rest of the land is so wild and dense that most of the ground never sees the sun. It's a dank, dark place made for hiding things like moonshine and heartbreak.

Peony and I splash across the frost-edged creek, passing a
rotting, abandoned sluice. I pull her up at the house—a small log cabin with a sod roof. Smoke curls from the chimney, and wind whistles against the cracked glass of the single window.

“Jefferson!” I swing a leg over and slide off. I sprint through dead weeds to the stoop, where I leap to avoid the sagging steps, and pound on the door. “Jefferson!”

Their dog, Nugget, barks from inside the house. Booted footsteps hurry toward me. The door swings wide, revealing Jefferson's da, a small man with wild gray hair, rumpled clothes, and a bright, red nose.

He shrugs on his right suspender strap, blinking against the gloomy day, which is downright perky compared to the murk of the cabin. “Miss Lee,” he slurs.

The air wafting out the door is warm and sour, like rising bread gone bad. “I need to see Jefferson,” I say.

“Dunno where that boy run off to.” Nugget pokes her yellow head out beside his legs, floppy ears perked forward.

“Where do you think he might've—”

“I said I dunno.”

“Did he come home after school?”

“Mebbe.”

Something snaps inside me. “Think for one
lousy
minute, will you? I'm in a heap of hurt, and I need to talk to your boy.”

Mr. McCauley recoils. “Watch your swearing tongue, girl.”

My fists clench with the need to bust his bright, red nose. It's a testament to my fine character that I turn tail and jog away. I'll find Jefferson myself.

The door slams behind me, so I'm surprised to feel Nugget's damp nose in my palm as I head toward the outhouse.

I pause at the door. It's powerful improper for me to bang on it with Jefferson inside. No help for it. I raise my fist to knock when the crack of an ax rents the air.

Relieved, I lift my petticoats and run toward the ramshackle building that was intended to be a barn but never got finished and became a woodshed instead.

Jefferson is behind it, sleeves rolled up past his elbows and ax in hand, splitting firewood on one of the larger stumps. The moment he sees me, he frowns and drops his ax. “Lee?”

And suddenly I'm clutch-hugging myself, and my words are jumbling all over one another, and I hardly know what I'm saying except that the word “dead” hangs in the air, sharper and more final than the crack of an ax on a chopping block.

His arms come up around my shoulders, and he pulls me close. He smells familiar and safe, like fresh woodchips and loamy soil, and finally I cry—great, gulping cries that dampen his shirt.

“All right, Lee,” he says at last. “Slow down. Start over and tell me everything. Every single thing.”

So I do. His face is grave as I talk. Even though my dinner is turning round and round in my belly, and my words come spilling out all over themselves, Jefferson just stands calm and ponders like a man twice his years.

“Maybe it was bandits,” he says, though I can tell he doesn't put much stock in the idea.

“They didn't take anything. Only thing missing was one of
Daddy's boots.”

“How long ago were they shot, do you think?”

“I heard the shots when I was on the way home. Mama was still alive when I found her. And Daddy's . . . The blood hadn't froze. Jeff, he rushed out the door with his boots still in hand. Why would he do that?”

Jeff's hand finds the small of my back and guides me toward the cabin. I stumble keeping up with his long legs. “Where—”

“I'm getting my gun,” he says. “Maybe your daddy heard a shot and ran outside.”

Nugget trots along beside us. “Wouldn't he have grabbed his own gun first? He just ran outside. Like . . . like . . .”

Jefferson stops cold, and I almost bang into his shoulder. “Like he knew the person. Someone he was powerful glad to see.”

I nod up at him. “Who would Daddy . . .” A sick worry wriggles around in my chest. “Mama said . . . before she . . . She told me to run.”

“She thought the murderer was still nearby.”

We stare at each other.

“This is bad, isn't it?” I say.

“We'll figure it, I promise. Did you bring a gun?”

“The cap and ball. Loaded it on the way here. All five shots.”

“Good. Nugget, stay here with Lee. I'll be right back.” He flings the door open and disappears into the murky cabin.

Jefferson never lets me in. He doesn't want me to know
how bad it is between him and his da, and he doesn't realize I've already guessed about the moonshine still that's hidden inside. There are things even best friends don't tell each other.

Nugget leans against my leg, and I bend down to scritch her neck; we've always gotten along, Nugget and me.

A thump echoes inside the cabin, then Mr. McCauley yells something loud and angry. Jefferson strides out a moment later, rifle in hand. He won't meet my eye, just heads over to the goat pen, Nugget and me at his heels.

He grabs the sorrel mare; they've never named the poor girl, just call her “the sorrel mare,” and they keep her penned for lack of a proper barn. Jefferson mounts up, and I use the fence to climb up on Peony, and off we go. Jefferson leads us southward, toward my house.

“We're going back?” I thought we'd go for help.

His voice is gentle as he says, “No use getting Doc now. And no murderer with a lick of sense would stick around after doing the deed.”

I stare blankly.

“Surely you know, Lee?” Jefferson says. “Lucky's Gold is practically a legend. Once word is out that your mama and daddy have gone to Jesus, the whole town will come poking around. Everyone thinks your daddy stashed—”

“Oh.” Tears threaten to spill again. I can imagine it now. Annabelle Smith and her mother coming by with their peach pie and their slick words of sympathy and their darting eyes. Sheriff Weber searching the whole homestead for “clues,”
opening cupboards and shifting hay bales and maybe even prying up floorboards.

“I need to hide . . . until everything's settled.” The words make me feel heartless and cold.
Necessity is a harsh master,
Mama used to say. Bet she didn't anticipate that necessity would make me look to our gold even before giving her a proper burial.

“It's true, isn't it?” Jefferson says, his voice suddenly wistful.

“It's true,” I whisper.

“All right, then.” He nods, as though to himself. “We'll have to be careful and quick. Just in case your mama was right and whoever did this decided to stick around.”

“I'm glad Nugget is with us.”

“She'll let us know if someone happens by.”

We pass the ridge where Daddy and I started working the new vein, then I cross the tiny cemetery that only has two headstones—one for Orpha the dog and one for my baby brother who lived three days. Daddy carved them himself. There'll soon be two more, and I don't know who will carve them.

Our pace slows even more as we ride through the orchard. Jefferson sits tall on his mare, alert for the slightest strangeness. As we pass the henhouse, something in me screams not to look, but I can't help glancing that way. The woodpile blocks my view of everything except Mama's legs. Her skirt is still tucked beneath her ankles.

A shadow passes overhead, and I duck before realizing it's a great buzzard circling. The first of the scavengers, coming
to get what's mine.

“Let's go in the back door,” I say. I'll have to face Daddy's body again soon enough. But not just yet.

Jefferson guides our horses past the garden and to the back porch. He hands me the reins to the sorrel mare, puts a finger to his lips, and whispers, “I'll check the house. Wait here.” He hefts his rifle and slips inside.

He's in there a long time while the cold sun beats down on my head and the buzzards circle and the silent woods watch my back. The world feels empty and quiet. Too empty.

My breath catches. Our gold.

I do sense something—the tiniest spark of sweetness. Probably just the nugget I found yesterday, hiding wherever Daddy stashed it. But the usual, ever-present thrumming in my head whenever I'm near our bag of dust is completely gone.

Strange how you don't notice things until they're taken away.