Walk on Earth a Stranger by Rae Carson

fast, one eye on the road. The effort loosens my cramped legs and makes my shoulders sing. When I’m done, I split and stack a little extra, just by way of saying thanks.
    I carry my armful of firewood to the house and find the door propped open. A chubby baby, not even a year old, plays in a rail crib. Bacon pops in the frying pan on the box stove. A plate of fried eggs and a steaming bowl of grits wait for me at the table.
    The woman reminds me of my mama, with hair that won’t stay neat and a skirt hem that won’t stay clean. Her husband is probably off at work somewhere, maybe panning in a nearby stream or working one of the smaller mines.
    â€œDrop that wood in the basket,” she says when she sees me hovering. “Then have a seat. I made extra since you seemed so determined to work up an appetite.”
    â€œThank you, ma’am.” I tip my hat to her, which reminds me that I ought to take it off while inside.
    Her gazes catches on my ragged hair, and I suddenly feellike a rabbit about to bolt, but the moment passes and she scoops some bacon onto my plate. “Eat up.”
    My mouth waters as I sit down and grab a fork.
    â€œIt’s early to be on the road,” she says. “Getting cold out there too, though your pretty mare looks to be putting on a nice coat.”
    Stopping here was another mistake. She’ll remember Peony for sure, if someone comes asking. “She’s always been a good winter horse,” I say around a mouthful of food. After swallowing, I add, “Heading to Dalton to see family. Guess I’m in a hurry to get there.”
    â€œOh. Thought for sure you were heading west after gold. Anyway, pace yourself. You won’t make Dalton today, no matter how early you start or how hard you go.”
    â€œNo, ma’am.”
    I eat so fast it gives me a bellyache. We say a few more general words to each other, mostly about the weather and the roads, all very polite, neither of us volunteering anything personal. I compliment her on her tidy house and her fat baby, which is always safe, and she observes that Peony looks sturdy and strong. After eating every single bite, I rise to clean my plate, just like I would at home, which seems to take her aback.
    â€œWay my mama taught me,” I say.
    She laughs. “Well, you tell your mama she raised you right, next time you see her.”
    I hesitate a space too long. “Will do, ma’am,” I answer softly.
    She opens her mouth to say something else, but changes her mind. She wraps up some extra food in a handkerchief and hands it to me, along with a couple of wrinkled winter apples.
    â€œFor your pretty mare,” she says.
    â€œHow much do I owe you for all this?” I ask, reaching for my change.
    â€œThree pennies for the eggs.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œYou earned it. That’s enough firewood to get me through the rest of the week.”
    â€œWell, all right.”
    I can’t get back on the road fast enough. At least my belly is full and my horse is rested.
    As the morning passes, I encounter more travelers, and it’s a little easier each time. Most want to stop for a friendly chat, but I try to keep our interactions to a quick howdy. Twice, when the way is clear, I urge Peony into a run.
    By midafternoon, I catch up to a woodcutter, whose slow mule cart is loaded with firewood. A farmer rides beside him, his saddlebags filled with bright red crab apples. As with everyone on the road, I search their faces for a spark of familiarity and am relieved when I don’t recognize either one.
    â€œAfternoon, son,” the farmer says.
    â€œHey, you’re coming from Lumpkin County, right?” the woodcutter says to me. “You hear tell of Lucky Westfall’s murder?”
    My words freeze in my mouth. “I . . . No, sir. Haven’t heard a thing.”
    The woodcutter turns to the farmer. “Him and his wife was both murdered. Might be the