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"Get away from him!"
The horse kicked me in the chest before I even saw it coming.
I hit the dirt. Dust in my mouth. The harness strap snapped past my ear, and the horse screamed like I'd cut it open.
I rolled. My hands dug into the ground. The animal's smell hit me first: sweat, leather, hot blood under the skin.
My throat tightened.
Blood.
Not much. A thin scrape along the horse's flank. Still, my teeth hurt.
The horse reared. One front hoof came down where my head had been.
I grabbed the broken strap.
I don't know why. Maybe because the horse was scared. Maybe because I was scared too, and grabbing something felt better than lying there waiting to die again.
The leather burned across my palm. The horse pulled. I pulled back.
It should've dragged me across the yard.
Instead, the strap went tight, and the horse stopped.
For one strange second, we stared at each other.
The horse's eyes rolled white. My fingers dug into the leather. I could hear its heart beating.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
My mouth watered.
"Ma'am! Let go!" the man yelled.
I didn't let go.
The horse jerked hard. My shoulder popped, but the harness held. A wagon wheel creaked behind me. Someone cursed. A child started crying.
Then I saw the hitch pin lying in the dirt.
The leather wasn't the problem. The pin had come loose. The whole harness was about to slide off the horse's back and take the lead team down with it.
I shoved myself up, caught the pin, and pushed it through the iron ring.
The hole was too small. My fingers were too thick with dirt.
The horse pulled again.
I punched the pin through.
The iron bent under my hand.
That stopped everyone.
The horse dropped its front hooves. The wagon settled with a long wooden groan.
I stayed crouched beside the animal, breathing out of habit even though I didn't need to. My palm was cut. A bead of blood rolled toward my wrist.
I stared at it.
The man who'd been shouting walked closer. Gray beard. Brown coat. Shotgun tucked under one arm. His eyes moved from my hand to the bent pin.
"What in God's name did you do?"
I looked at his mouth.
The words came too fast. I caught only God.
"Horse," I said.
His eyebrows climbed.
Right. English.
I'd spent three days hiding from the sun, hiding from Edith, hiding from my own mouth. I could say a few words. Horse. Water. No. Stop. Good enough to stay alive, maybe not good enough to get a seat on a westbound wagon.
I closed my fist around the bleeding palm.
The man pointed at the harness. "You fixed that?"
I nodded.
"With your hand?"
I looked at the bent iron pin.
He stepped back half a pace.
"Don't look at me like that," I said.
He understood none of it. His shotgun hand tightened.
A girl peered around the wagon wheel. Maybe twelve. Red scarf tied over messy brown hair. Her face was dirty. Her eyes were bright and curious.
"Pa," she said, "she saved Bess."
The man didn't look away from me. "Amy, get back in the wagon."
"But she did."
"Amy."
The girl disappeared, but not far. I could still hear her breathing behind the wheel.
I looked down at my hand. The cut had already closed.
I pressed my thumb over it before the bearded man could see.
Too late. He'd seen something. Maybe not the wound. Maybe the way I stood. My clothes were torn and filthy, the black coat hanging from my shoulders like it belonged to somebody taller. Edith had given it to me before she vanished. The sleeves covered most of my hands. The collar still smelled faintly of rose soap, old smoke, and her skin.
Don't let sunrise catch you.
That was all she'd said before leaving me behind the mining camp.
No money. No food. No name anyone here would know.
The sun had gone down two hours ago. If I walked into the desert, I could hide until morning. Then what? Dig another hole? Eat rabbits until a bounty hunter noticed the empty carcasses?
The wagon train was my only chance.
I pointed at the wagon. Then at myself. I folded my hands under my cheek and closed my eyes.
Sleep. Ride. Please.
The bearded man stared.
"You want a bunk?"
I nodded quickly.
He laughed once, without humor. "Everybody wants a bunk."
I reached into my coat and pulled out the thing Edith had left in the pocket. A silver ring. Plain. Heavy. Too cold, even after lying against my body.
The man saw it.
His face changed.
Not much. Just a pause. His eyes dropped to the ring, then lifted to the black coat.
"You're a widow?"
I didn't know the word.
He pointed at the ring. Then he made a fist and held it against his chest. He pointed toward the dark rows of wagons.
I guessed.
"Husband," I said.
He waited.
I turned the ring around my finger. "Dead."
The word I knew.
His mouth went tight.
Behind the wagon wheel, Amy whispered, "Pa, she doesn't have anywhere to go."
"Neither do half the people in this camp."
"She fixed Bess."
"She nearly got herself trampled."
"Still fixed her."
The girl came out from behind the wheel. Her boots were too big, and one lace dragged through the dirt. She looked at my face, not my hands.
"You got a name?" she asked.
I understood name.
"Qin. Qin Sheng."
She tried it. "Kin?"
"Qin."
"Chin?"
"Qin."
"Good enough."
Her father sighed. "Amy."
She pointed at herself. "Amy Tucker. That's my pa, Amos. This is Bess. Bess bites."
Bess snorted behind me.
I stepped away from the horse. My legs felt too steady. Too strong. That was worse than weakness. Weakness looked human. Strength made people ask questions.
Amos pointed at the wagon. "You can ride in the back until we leave. You work for it."
I nodded.
"You cook?"
I shook my head.
"Sew?"
I nodded.
"Laundry?"
I nodded again.
"Speak English?"
I thought about that.
"Little."
He rubbed his beard. "You got papers?"
The question hit harder than the horse.
I shook my head.
"Family?"
I looked toward the black ridge beyond the camp. Somewhere behind it lay the tunnel. The collapsed rail line. My first grave.
"No."
Amos watched me for a long moment. Then he pointed to the wagon.
"Get in before I change my mind."
I climbed up.
The wagon bed smelled of flour, old blankets, and a child's dirty socks. Amy scooted aside to make room. She kept looking at my hands.
"You really bent that pin?"
I shook my head.
"No?"
"Iron bad."
"You pushed it through."
"Bad pin."
Amy frowned. "That's not what I saw."
"You saw bad."
She grinned.
It was a small thing. Her grin. Her dirty sleeve. The way she held one knee to her chest and watched me like I was interesting instead of dangerous.
My throat burned again.
Not from hunger this time.
I looked away.
Amos climbed into the driver's seat. The wagon rocked beneath us. He called to the other men in the camp, and the voices spread from wagon to wagon.
"Bell team's ready!"
"Check the rear wheel!"
"Where's Tucker's flour?"
"Tell that preacher to keep his hands off my whiskey!"
The camp was packing to move west before dawn. Men tied canvas. Women wrapped pots in blankets. Lanterns swung from wagon poles. Every smell came sharp and clean to me. Coffee. Grease. Leather. Wet wool. A cut finger somewhere near the fire.
I could hear all of them.
Every heartbeat.
I pressed my fists between my knees.
Amy leaned toward me. "You sick?"
"No."
"You look sick."
"Always look."
She considered that. "You don't talk much."
"Good."
She giggled.
Amos glanced over his shoulder. "Amy, leave her alone."
"She says good."
"I heard her."
"She's funny."
"She's tired."
I wasn't tired. I hadn't slept since waking under the dirt. I wasn't sure sleep would come anymore. But I lowered my head and pulled the black coat tighter around me.
The coat had belonged to Edith. That was what I told myself.
I didn't think about the blood at the collar.
I didn't think about the way it fit me like it'd been waiting.
A woman climbed into the wagon carrying a tin cup. Pale hair pinned under a scarf. A face carved thin by too many hard years. She handed the cup to Amy, then stopped when she saw me.
"Who's this?"
"Found her by Bess," Amos said.
"You found a woman?"
"She fixed the harness."
The woman looked me over. Her eyes paused on my black coat and the ring.
"Ruth Bell?"
I froze.
The name meant nothing. The man's reaction did.
Amos's jaw tightened. "Not Ruth."
The woman glanced at him. "Looks like her coat."
"A lot of black coats in Nevada."
"Not with that brass button."
My fingers found the button at my throat. It was stamped with a tiny bird.
The woman lowered her voice. "Ruth Bell was meant to go with us."
"She isn't going."
"I can see that."
Amy looked between them. "Who was Ruth?"
Nobody answered.
The woman set her cup down. "You don't know?"
I shook my head.
"She's dead," Amy said.
Her father gave her a sharp look. "Enough."
"But she is. Everybody knows. She died yesterday."
The woman grabbed Amy's wrist. "Go help your pa."
Amy pulled free. "I was just telling her."
"Go."
Amy climbed down, muttering under her breath.
I kept my face still. Inside, the hunger lifted its head.
Dead yesterday.
Ruth Bell. Black coat. Brass bird button. A ring.
Borrowed things.
The pale-haired woman sat across from me. "You speak Chinese?"
I nodded.
"Where's your man?"
I pointed west, then made my hand fall limp.
She understood. "Dead too?"
I nodded.
Her expression softened. That was good. Soft faces asked fewer questions.
"Name?"
"Qin."
"Qin what?"
"Qin."
She looked at Amos. "She could be Ruth's cousin."
"Ruth didn't have a Chinese cousin."
"You know every person she ever met?"
"I know enough."
The woman turned back to me. "Can you work?"
I nodded.
"Then work. Ruth's place is empty. Her husband is dead, and she was going to ride in the second wagon. We have room now."
The words came slowly enough for me to catch most of them.
Empty place.
Ride.
I pointed at the wagon bed.
"Yes," she said. "You can have it. But you pull your own weight. No trouble. No stealing. No sneaking off at night."
I almost laughed.
No trouble.
That might be difficult.
Amos climbed down and called for everyone to move the last supplies. The pale-haired woman followed him. Before she left, she touched the brass button on my coat.
"You got that from Ruth?"
I looked at her hand.
"No," I said.
She waited.
I chose the safest lie I had.
"Mine."
The woman's eyes narrowed.
Then Amy shouted from outside, "Pa! The flour sack split!"
The woman swore and jumped down.
I sat alone in the wagon for three seconds.
Then I heard it.
A heartbeat beneath the floor.
Slow.
Wet.
Not a horse. Not a person standing nearby. The sound came from below the wagon bed, muffled by wood and sacks.
I leaned forward.
The heartbeat stopped.
My fingers tightened around the edge of the bench.
Maybe I'd imagined it. Hunger made strange tricks. Edith had said that. Hunger could turn a shadow into a throat.
Then the heartbeat started again.
Boom.
A pause.
Boom.
I slid off the bench and crouched beside the rear flap. Outside, Amos was yelling at two men over the flour. Amy was arguing with the pale-haired woman about going west. Nobody watched me.
I lifted the canvas a finger's width.
The supply cart stood behind us, loaded with flour, beans, lamp oil, and water barrels. Its wheels were locked. A tarp covered the bottom half.
Something moved beneath it.
Not something.
Someone.
A hand pushed against the canvas from inside.
The fingers were slick with blood.
I stopped breathing.
The hand fell away.
Under the cart, somebody made a small choking sound.
My teeth came down hard enough to hurt.
The camp bell rang.
Amos shouted, "Everybody aboard! We roll in five!"
I pushed the wagon flap open another inch.
The blood under the cart was fresh. I could smell it through the wood, through the flour, through the hot leather of the harness.
And the heartbeat beneath the supply cart suddenly sped up.
Boom-boom-boom-boom.
The canvas moved.
A face pressed against it from the inside.
Pale. Bruised. Eyes wide open.
Looking right at me.
"Help," the voice whispered.
Amos's boot hit the wagon step behind me.
"Qin! You in there?"
The face under the tarp vanished.
I didn't move.
Amos's shadow fell across the flap.
"Qin?"
I turned.
He stood at the wagon's edge, one hand on the canvas, his eyes scanning the inside.
"You all right?"
I nodded.
He looked past me, toward the supply cart.
"You see something?"
I shook my head.
His eyes narrowed.
Behind him, the camp bell rang again.
"Two minutes!" someone shouted.
Amos stepped up into the wagon. His boots creaked on the boards. He walked past me, leaned out the back, and lifted the edge of the tarp on the supply cart.
I held my breath.
He stared for a long moment.
Then he dropped the tarp and turned back to me.
"Stay inside," he said. "Don't go near the supply cart. You understand?"
I understood.
He climbed down.
I sat very still.
The heartbeat under the cart had stopped again.
But I could still smell the blood.
And I could still see the pale face pressed against the canvas, mouth open, eyes begging.
Help.
The wagon lurched forward.
Amy climbed back in, breathless and grinning. "We're moving! Pa says we'll hit the river by tomorrow if the weather holds."
I didn't answer.
She sat down across from me, pulled a biscuit from her pocket, and bit into it.
"You ever been west?" she asked.
I shook my head.
"Me neither. Pa says it's different. Says there's gold in the hills and water that doesn't taste like rust."
She chewed.
I stared at the back of the wagon.
The supply cart rolled behind us, wheels creaking, tarp flapping in the wind.
Amy leaned closer. "You're not scared, are you?"
I looked at her.
"Of what?"
"The desert. Pa says people die out there all the time. Says you gotta be smart or you're dead by noon."
I thought about the face under the tarp.
The blood.
The heartbeat.
"I'm not scared," I said.
Amy grinned. "Good. 'Cause I think you're gonna like it."
She turned away, humming something under her breath.
I sat very still.
The wagon rolled west.
And behind us, under the tarp, something in the supply cart started to