Prologue

Boulder City, Colorado, November 1886

Red soil, turned to slick, dark clay by the incessant rain, hit the plain pine lid of the coffin with a hollow thud. The sound made Dorothy Marie Everett feel suddenly sick to her stomach. She pulled her late father’s tattered and patched slicker closer around her face and tried not to look into the grave being steadily filled by the grave diggers, who were tossing shovelfuls of earth into her parents’ combined final resting place.

Instead, she stared off into the distance, through the rain-darkened pine trees of the city cemetery. Her chest ached from crying. Her mind floundered in a fog of unanswered questions. If only she could have caught the winter fever, too, and died with Ma and Pa. If only she could be safely in heaven, now. As it was, her future stretched out before her like a bottomless canyon, filled with deep darkness and hidden dangers.

“Dorothy, is it?” a gentle female voice said beside her.

Dorothy turned to see a well-dressed young couple with kindly faces under a large black umbrella. “Yes. But most folks call me Dora.” She knew that she recognized them, but for a moment she couldn’t place them.

“Do you have anywhere to go, Dora?” the woman asked, her brown eyes luminous with compassion.

Anywhere to go? Dora’s mind travelled instinctively home, but she was an orphan now, and had no way to pay the rent. Even if she did go home, it would be mere days before she was out on the street again. She wouldn’t be the first to be tossed out of a boarding house.

“No, I don’t think so,” she said, shaking her head. Rainwater dripped from her nose, and her head felt icy cold. The rain grew thicker and whiter. Sleet.

“No relatives, then?” the man said, and when he spoke, she remembered who he was.

“No relatives, Reverend ah …”

“James. Reverend Archibald James.” The young clergyman smiled kindly.

Dora tried to recall what he’d said during his short, graveside message. All she could remember was the sound of his voice. Young and hopeful and full of the compassion she now saw in his and his wife’s eyes.

“Why don’t you come home with us, dear?” Mrs. James said, reaching out a mittened hand. “It’s only a month till Christmas. You can stay as long as you need to. We can help you look for a suitable long-term arrangement after the holidays.” Dora’s own hand twitched, wanting to accept the kind lady’s offer, but her mind balked.

We don’t take charity, Dora, d’you hear? Especially not from them church folks, her father’s words echoed in her mind. Us Everetts, we ain’t beholden to nobody. We stand on our own two feet.

Do we? her embattled mind retaliated. Even when it gets us nowhere but dead from the winter fever?

Why had her father been so headstrong? If Dora had only known her parents were giving her the lion’s share of what little food they had, keeping barely a bird’s rations for themselves. She’d found out too late. When they were too weak to save, and she’d had to try to nurse them back to health. Even then her father had refused help.

“You be strong, now, Dora,” he’d said, rasping past the catarrh and the fever-induced delirium that finally ended him. “Your ma and me, we believe in you. You’ll find a way, you’ll see.”

“Dora, dear?” Mrs. James’s voice pierced the memory, along with Dora’s resolve.

Hunger and cold did the rest of the job.

“I’d be most grateful, Mrs. James,” Dora said, trying to stop her teeth from chattering. She tried even harder not to think of her father and mother in the sodden, freezing grave beside her.

Pa would be turning in that grave about now if he could hear her. But she had to survive. He’d had his ways, and she had hers.

“Splendid,” Reverend James said. “Our buggy is just over there.” He waved his hand to where a team of smart bay horses stood, their coats dark with rain and melted sleet. Behind them, a large black covered buggy stood.

The canyon of Dora’s future was looking a little less dark and foreboding now. A tiny ray of light seemed to shine on that first step into it as she turned away from her parents’ grave and followed her kind benefactors to their vehicle.

I’m sorry, Pa, she thought, the ache in her chest deepening. I’m sorry, Ma. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I’m sorry I ain’t strong enough.

***

The James home was a modest but well supplied one. Hand-embroidered cushions filled all the chairs. The rugs were hand-braided but they were thick and soft underfoot. ,Heavy drapes made of muslin and faded dimity kept the cold at bay, ably assisted by a large woodstove in the kitchen. Delicious smells filled the room and soft lighting created a warm, golden atmosphere.

Dora, towel dried and wearing a slightly too big dress borrowed from Mrs. James, sat by the fire in the parlor and sipped on hot broth prepared by her hostess. It was good, fortifying stuff. Warmth seeped into Dora’s body, and she felt her senses coming slowly to life. Although she would just as soon have remained in her foggy stupor.

As life trickled back into her veins, her thoughts and memories became clearer, as did the ache of fatigue gnawing at her joints and muscles. Her pride would not let her stay at the James residence for longer than a week. But where would she go then? How would she survive? Most young women her age were married or about to be married. She had no chance of turning any gentleman’s head with her plain looks and poverty-stricken background, and her father had refused to let her marry on a par with her station.

Dear Father God, she thought, taking another sip of broth. Maybe I should have eloped with Tim Trippley while I had the chance. But she knew she didn’t mean it. It would have broken her mother’s heart as well as her father’s. And she knew he had meant well, bless his heart.

“How is that broth, Dora?” Mrs. James sat down beside her on the settee. Dora swallowed, startled and embarrassed that she had not even heard her hostess enter the room. Reverend James seated himself on a chair across from the two women. His face was grave but full of empathy.

“You’ve been through a trying time, Dora,” he said gently. “I only wish we could have helped you sooner.”

He didn’t specifically say so, but Dora knew he meant before her parents had got so bad that they couldn’t recover.

“So do I, reverend,” Dora said, lowering her eyes. “Only, Pa wouldn’t have let you help, anyhow. He didn’t cotton to religious folk.”

A flicker of surprise crossed the reverend’s eyes, but he remained composed. “How so?” It was a gently asked question, not probing or defensive.

“I don’t rightly know, reverend,” Dora replied honestly. “Ma never told me. Only said that we should just keep praying for him.”

“So, you believe in our Lord and Savior?”

“Yes, sir. Ma taught me to read using the Holy Scriptures, only, we did it when Pa wasn’t home. And we prayed. We prayed a lot.” Hot tears filled Dora’s eyes. If only she could hear Ma reading from the Bible she kept hidden in a box among her pots and pans, her eyes full of bright wonder, her voice soft, but vibrant with love and awe.

“Oh! Dear Dora, I’m so sorry we weren’t there when you needed us!” Mrs. James lamented softly, encircling Dora with one arm and giving her shoulders a motherly squeeze as she grasped Dora’s hand.

“It ain’t your fault, Mrs. James. You couldn’t have known we had any need unless we told you, and Pa wouldn’t have stood for it, anyhow. Not us telling you, nor you helping us,” Dora kept her tone level and pragmatic.

“May I read one of my favorite scripture verses for you?” the reverend asked, his voice a little raspy.

Dora nodded, unable to speak for fear that her voice would desert her. She didn’t want to cry. Didn’t want to feel sorry for herself. Accepting charity was one thing. Blubbering like a child was quite another.

Reverend James stepped over to a round table in the corner and sat down in the chair beside it. On the table lay the biggest, thickest, most richly gilded book Dora had ever laid eyes upon. He reverently opened the cover and paged carefully through the middle of the book. Then he turned to look at Dora.

“Psalm Thirty-four,” he said, his face serene, as Dora remembered her mother’s face had been every time she took out her little pocket-sized Bible. She’d found it in a pawn shop. It was small enough to keep hidden from Pa and tote around to read when they went on walks together. Now it was tucked away amongst Dora’s meager possessions. No need to hide it anymore.

“I shall bless the Lord at all times: His praise shall continually be in my mouth,” Reverend James read, his voice rising and falling with emotion and passion. Dora could almost hear her mother’s voice once more as the reverend read on. Her lips moved in silent recitation of the words she had heard quoted so many times before.

Dora closed her eyes, feeling weak, broken. Before she knew it, she was leaning against Mrs. James’s comforting, reassuring shoulder. Mrs. James squeezed her hand.

“The righteous cry, and the Lord heareth, and delivereth them out of all their troubles. The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.”

Dora didn’t need to hear the rest of the psalm. She had hidden those words deep in her heart, and now she mulled over them as she lay exhausted against Mrs. James’s shoulder.

When the reverend’s voice died away at the end of the final verse, she sat up and smiled gratefully at her hosts.

“I think I’d like to retire now, if I may.” Dora hoped they wouldn’t be offended. It wasn’t that she wasn’t grateful—she just felt so drained.

“Of course, of course,” Reverend James nodded emphatically. “Mrs. James will help you with anything you need. I think it would be wise for you to rest for the remainder of the day. We’ll talk more tomorrow morning.”

Dora thanked him and followed Mrs. James through to the couple’s guest bedchamber. Mrs. James brought her a nightdress and robe and drew the drapes to shut out the pale, rain-muted daylight. Then she quietly left, and Dora sank down on the bed.

She closed her eyes, wondering if tears would come, but none did.

Dear Father God, she prayed silently. Mama would have said that you aren’t surprised by what’s happening to me.

That wasn’t the easiest thought to have. She should be asking why. She should be berating the God who would let such things happen to her, a good, innocent girl. But Mama would have reminded her of another truth.

You know better than I, dear Lord, Dora’s silent prayer continued. Mama never questioned her lot, did she? She always found a lesson to learn, a vice in herself that needed pruning, as she put it.

Dora smiled to herself. It was true. And that childlike, unquestioning faith she had seen in her mother must have somehow been absorbed into Dora’s own heart and mind.

I trust you, God. Please show me what it is you want me to do. What is my next step? Where do I go from here?

The wind sighed outside the window. Rain dripped from the eaves in a disjointed, watery melody of its own. Somewhere a man shouted, and a dog barked. Dora lay still, her eyes closed. She could hear the steady thud-thud of her own heart in her ears.

Gradually, the sounds around her faded, and she found herself on a large, windswept plain. It was night, dark and cold. All around were whisperings and unknown sounds. Fear clutched at her heart. Looking around, Dora searched for some kind of shelter, some kind of settlement, a house, a barn, anything. All she could see was shapeless shadows and writhing mists.

“Oh, what am I to do? Help me, God!” she cried out, lifting her eyes upward and wrapping her arms around herself. Ahead of her a mountain rose up, a solid black mass against the shifting, sighing shadows all around her. At the very top, a light began to shine, pale at first, and then growing in brightness, until it bathed the whole mountain in a shimmering glow.

Dora stared, conscious that she had to study that mountain, it’s every peak and gully, every patch of snow on its granite spires. A pressing, urgent unction pressed upon her spirit that she must tell Reverend James what she had seen.

Then, suddenly, she came awake with a gasp, sitting up straight. Mrs. James was at her bedside, holding a lamp.

“Are you all right, dear? You cried out so plaintively.” Mrs. James asked. Dora realized the dear lady was clasping her hand.

“Yes, yes, I am, thank you,” Dora stammered. “I just had a dream.”

“Would you like to tell me about it? Or would you rather try to sleep again?” Mrs. James asked gently.

Dora shook her head. “No. I mean, thank you, but I feel I must tell you what I saw. Before I forget.”

“All right,” Mrs. James said, settling into the chair beside Dora’s bed as she set the lamp down on the nightstand.

“You’ll be sure to tell Reverend James, too, won’t you?” Dora said.

“I can hear you, Dora,” the reverend’s voice drifted into the room from the doorway.

“My husband wanted to be ready in case you were in any real trouble,” Mrs. James answered Dora’s querying look.

Dora smiled. How kind and honorable could two people be? If only her father could have known them. That might have changed his mind about religious folk. She took a deep breath and thought back to her dream, narrating what she remembered.

“I saw an enormous mountain, full of snow, but it didn’t look at all like the Flatiron Mountains here in Boulder,” Dora said, the image still so fresh in her mind, she could almost physically see it. “It looked like one large mountain split down the middle and another smaller mountain growing out of it, with twin peaks right at the top. Between those twin peaks was a gentle curve, as if they were connected, somehow.”

The reverend’s voice broke in on her tale. “Why, that sounds like Gannett’s Peak. Do you know it? It’s in Wyoming.”

“Wyoming? No,” Dora replied. “I’ve spent all my life in Boulder City, and sometimes Pa would take me to Denver City, but I’ve never gone further than that.”

“What do you think it means?” Mrs. James said. Dora took a while to answer, looking into the gentle lady’s eyes. She was remembering her prayer of the night before. Remembering that plea for direction. Again, she saw the light shining over the mountain in her dream, like the star must have hung over the stable in Bethlehem.

Sometimes you know something without thinking about it, without being told.

“I have to go to Wyoming. I have to go to Gannett’s Peak.” The words came out of Dora’s mouth without any help from her mind.

The reverend spluttered and coughed. “Go to Wyoming? But you’re a young woman alone! What would you do there? Who would you go to? Assuming you arrive there unmolested in the first place.”

Dora took a deep breath. Reverend James was asking questions that warranted good answers, but she had only one. And it wasn’t a very good one, at that.

“Truth be told, I haven’t the foggiest notion, Reverend James. All I do know is that I have to go there. And I have to leave tomorrow.”

Chapter One

“I don’t feel at all happy about this, Dora,” Reverend James said, his frown echoing his sentiments. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

Dora gave him an apologetic smile. “I hope it is, reverend,” she said, taking her carpet bag from his outstretched hand. “And I am truly grateful for your kindness. I hope you don’t think I’m not. It’s just …” she hesitated. “I suppose you could say I feel it’s God calling me to go there, and if he’s calling me, I daren’t disobey.”

“But, my dear,” the reverend said, placing a concerned hand on her shoulder. “What if you’re wrong? What if it isn’t God calling you?”

Dora had asked herself that very question at least a hundred times the night before and a hundred more that very morning. Even as she had stepped onto the boardwalk along Arapahoe Street, where the train would stop to pick up passengers and allow others to disembark, the nagging fear dogged the heels of her mind.

“All I can hope for is that His grace is sufficient for me, reverend,” Dora said, inclining her head respectfully. “That is what the Scriptures tell us, is it not?”

“Yes, indeed it is,” the reverend admitted, but his eyes were still clouded with worry.

“Reverend James?” a gruff male voice said. “Is this the young lady I’m to chaperone?”

Dora looked up to see a gentleman in a pitch-black broadcloth suit, an equally black bowler hat on his head, and a pigskin suitcase in his hand. His face was lined with age, and his whiskers were almost completely white, but his eyes were piercing and alert, his back ramrod straight, and his shoulders thrown back proudly. Nobody could accuse him of having one foot in the grave, despite his obviously advanced years.

Reverend James turned to the gentleman. “Ah, Mr. Chaucer! How good of you to agree to our request. Yes, this is the young lady I spoke of. I hope it will not be too much of an imposition on your time or your kindness …”

The older man waved off the reverend’s concerns.

“Far be it from me not to do my civil duty where I can, Reverend James,” he said. “I am afraid I won’t be able to accompany the young lady all the way to her destination. I do, however, have a cousin who lives near the railway line in Rock Springs. I’ve wired him to come collect Miss Everett when the train arrives there and to accompany her to her desired location.”

He rocked back on his heels and crossed his arms over his chest, looking satisfied. He seemed to Dora like someone who was accustomed to being in control, having all the answers.

“As a matter of fact,” Mr. Chaucer was saying, looking directly at Dora with a vaguely disapproving expression, “I believe my cousin knows some kindly folks around that area whom he might prevail upon to take care of Miss Everett until she has found what it is she’s looking for. I trust that meets with your approval?”

“Yes. Yes, it does.” The reverend looked relieved, and his face relaxed into a smile for the first time that morning.

Mrs. James gave Dora a heartfelt hug. “There, now, you see. It will all work out fine.” She pulled back again and rubbed Dora’s back encouragingly. “Do write and let us know what happens. I dare say, it will be wonderful to see what our Lord has planned for you.”

Dora smiled at her. If she wasn’t mistaken, Mrs. James was at least a little bit envious that she wasn’t at liberty to embark on such an adventure.

On the one hand, Dora herself was excited about what God might do in response to her radical—and some might say impulsive—step of obedience. On the other hand, uncertainty still loomed, its dark shadow dimming the rays of hope that were beginning to shine in Dora’s topsy-turvy world.

God doesn’t always answer our prayers the way we want Him to, my sweet, she heard the echo of her mother’s voice in her heart. But he does always answer. We simply need to be willing to hear what it is he’s saying and accept the answer he gives.

Reverend James still looked dubious about the wisdom of Dora’s decision when she and her kind chaperone, Mr. Chaucer, boarded the train. Dora wished there was some way she could reassure him. He had been so kind and generous, even paying for her train ticket, despite his misgivings. In some ways, that proved he believed as much as she did that God was in the details of her wildly irregular life choices.

Dora waved goodbye until she could no longer see the young minister and his wife through the glass of the train car window. Then she turned to her seat and sat down, staring at her hands in her lap and wondering if she had indeed done the right thing. Mr. Chaucer had already unfolded a newspaper and was almost completely hidden behind it.

“Those folks your relatives, then, miss?” a dull female voice drawled.

Dora looked up to see a young woman sitting across from her. She had curly yellow hair pinned up in a knot at the nape of her neck, and pale blue eyes that seemed tired of looking at a joyless, heartless world. She was pale skinned and bony, and dressed in a mismatched outfit that looked like it had been dug out of a charity box at the poorhouse.

Dora knew the look of those clothes all too well. She’d dug in such boxes herself, more times than she could count. Suddenly she felt overly conscious of the neatly pressed, well cared for woolen travel dress and coat that Mrs. James had insisted on giving her.

“No, not my relatives, just some very fine people. As fine as you’ll ever hope to meet,” Dora said, giving the woman a friendly smile, though her heart felt heavy, her thoughts fragmented and scattered.

“Looked like a minister to me. You a religious person, yourself?” the woman went on, not seeming aware that she was carrying on a conversation with a complete stranger without so much as introducing herself.

Dora decided to let it slide. Who was she to tell someone how to keep within the bounds of propriety when she herself was challenging them so recklessly?

“I prefer to call myself a person of faith,” Dora said. “Religion has so many negative, restrictive connotations, don’t you agree?”

“Hmmm …” the young woman said.

Mr. Chaucer peered over his paper at Dora and then at the young woman. He immediately went back to reading, making no comment, though Dora sensed he was adding his own opinion in his head.

“I’m Dorothy Everett, but you can call me Dora.” She held out her hand across the narrow space that separated their seats. “And you are?”