Prologue

St. Louis, Missouri

1866

June Heaton glanced at the cloudy blue-gray sky, longing for the ache in her heart to end. The war was over. Why was there no news of John? Surely, he should be home by now or have sent a letter. Maybe he’d lost his memory, or worse: He was injured and couldn’t write to her.

As the days passed, her anxiety grew.

Cheerful laughter caught her attention.

In one hand, she held a stick, and in the other, pinched between her thumb and forefinger, was a large hoop. She held the hoop, placed the stick inside, and tried to rotate the hoop with the stick inside, but the hoop slid off and fell flat on the ground.

Before the war, June remembered playing with Oliver in front of their house, welcoming flocks of people as they passed by, but now, only workers strolled to and fro.

“No, Mam,” Oliver cried in horror.

Her seven-year-old son was coaching her to play hoop and stick—a game she was familiar with and played as a child. Excited that he was the best among his friends, Oliver had wanted to show her how the game was played.

“I’m holding the stick right.” She smiled at the determined look that crossed his face. “The hoop keeps spinning off.”

The fresh scents of spring surrounded her—earthy mixed with the perfume of spring’s blossoming flowers.

“You mustn’t let the hoop fall.” His brows furrowed, accentuating his dark blue eyes—so much like his father’s that she could scarcely look at them without a pang of nausea. “I showed you, didn’t I?”

“Let’s play another game,” she suggested, twirling wisps of her hair with her forefinger while suppressing a heavy sigh.

What was wrong with her?

She was playing with her son, but all she could think about was her husband.

“Ah, but we just started,” Oliver moaned, his arms swinging at his side and his stick and hoop in one hand. “One more time, please.”

“Okay, I give up.” She stood with an affectionate smile, still holding her stick and hoop. Sharp, needle-like pains shot up her right leg from crouching so long. “You keep beating me because you’re the champion.”

He flashed a smile and continued to play his game.

Staring back at Oliver, a fond smile tugged at the corners of her lips, observing the mischievous dimples that poked at his cheeks: John’s smile. Everything about him was a reminder of her husband.

Twisting the ring on her left hand, June imagined other housewives welcoming their husbands and chastised herself. She should be patient, shouldn’t she?

It had been difficult for Oliver, too. Every night when she put him to bed, she could tell that the same question that churned in her mind was burning in his eyes. When would John come back home?

She pressed her lips together and smoothed the folds of her dress, a pale green cotton.

“I’ll go prepare supper,” June called to her son, who was oblivious to everything except his stick and hoop.

Gazing at him, warmth spread through her chest and melted some of the ice freezing over her heart.

With a slight shake of her head, she walked onto the porch and entered the house.

Though he had to borrow money from a friend who owned a chain of banks and other businesses, John had built the quaint house from wood himself. It had two rooms, a kitchen, a pantry, and a large parlor. At the back of the house was a small washing room and a line for hanging clothes. The kitchen was an acceptable size, with an oak cupboard and kitchen table John had made and a brick stove. Skillets, pans, and pots were mounted on the wall.

“Mam, Mam,” Oliver shouted and burst into the kitchen from the front door, panting.

June stared at him, wide-eyed, holding a knife and about to chop onions. “Oliver, what is it? What’s wrong?”

He pointed a tiny finger at the door, and a soft knock soon followed.

“Someone’s here! He looks imp’rtant.”

John? No, she thought. Oliver would be in his arms.

She placed the knife on the kitchen table and wiped her hands on a cloth.

Her heart pounded as she hurried to the front door, though she wasn’t sure if it was from nerves or anticipation.

Pulling it open, expecting it to be John or someone from the U.S. Army, her heart sank. A well-groomed, middle-aged man stood at her door. Graying hair stuck out from under his hat; he had thin whiskers, sideburns, and a light beard. He wore a small-brimmed V-shaped hat, pantaloons snugly tucked into his knee-length brown boots, and a hefty, weather-beaten bag swung over his shoulder.

His dark brown horse stood at the gate, its tail flapping from side to side.

“Can I help you?” June rubbed her hands together, and her eyes darted to his bag.

“Mrs. Heaton?” he questioned in a polite, gruff voice.

June’s chin dipped. “Yes. I am she.”

Oliver’s hands wrapped around her leg, and she locked eyes with him, his fear showing in the trembling of his fingers and the pallor of his face.

Her fingers brushed through his light blond hair in silent reassurance.

“Stagecoach received your letter.” Like a stiff soldier, he handed her a tattered envelope that may have been white before its posting.

“Thank you.”

“Good day.” The man tipped his hat and turned on his heels, heading toward his horse.

“Yes, good d ay…” June repeated absentmindedly, her voice lowering to barely a whisper, and closed the front door.

“What is it, Mam?”

Oliver’s voice wobbled, and her world spun as a sense of foreboding swirled in her mind—a feeling that her son clearly shared.

She stepped back, walked to the parlor, and collapsed into a timber-slatted chair. Oliver followed her.

She stared at the letter addressed from the U.S. Army, her heart pounding.

Could it be…?

No! John was coming home. He had to be.

Despite her conviction, tears gathered at the rim of her eyes. Her chest heaved with each broken breath, and the sense of dread intensified, knotting her stomach.

“Mam, you look sick!” Oliver sounded panicked, peering at her.

June swallowed and faked a closed-lipped half-smile. “Everything is fine. I’m sure of it.”

She scanned the envelope and noticed the stamp was two months old. Her forefinger traced the jagged typed lettering.

Turning it around and around, rotating it like a spinning wheel, she placed the letter on her lap.

“Oliver, get me some water, won’t you?”

Her eyes were fixated on the envelope. She didn’t see him scurry away or process how long it took him to get the cup of water.

“Here, Mam.”

She took the cup, not caring that its contents were splashed all over the floor, and sipped the cool water before placing the it on the chipped wooden side table.

“Thank you.”

Picking up the envelope, her fingers lingered before finally opening it. She pulled out the letter; it felt rough and moist, as if it had fought the elements to get to her.

Unfolding it, she gasped, and her fingers tensed as she read it. Her hand shot to her mouth, and tears spilled down her face.

All she could comprehend was, “Dear Mrs. Heaton… to inform you… honorable service… with regret… our hearts saddened… your husband, John, is dead.”

She closed her eyes, sobbing, and realized she’d known it all along but didn’t want to admit it. From deep within her heart rose an explosion she had never known in her life. It took all of her willpower to stay strong for Oliver.

“Mam, what’s wrong?” Oliver clung to her arm. “What does it say? Is Dad coming home?”

Heartbroken, she dried her tears, took deep breaths, and folded the letter inside the envelope, placing it in her pocket. She locked her gaze on him and stroked his smooth, fair cheek, which was still plump and soft as a baby’s, lost in his innocent eyes.

Her head and heart were in chaos, and she couldn’t find the words to tell him about his father.

“Oliver…your dad…he…um…he will be home soon. I miss him. That’s all,” she said, sniffling and trying to keep her voice steady. Faking a smile, she stood to her feet and wiped her eyes. “Go wash up. Supper will be ready soon.”

“Okay, Mam.” He grinned and raced off, clearly happy that Dad would be home soon.

She had to be strong for Oliver. How could she tell him that his father had died saving another man in the line of battle?

Her heart was in turmoil.

Should she feel proud or jealous of the person who would have their father, husband, or son back?

Her mouth twitched upward.

It was like John to try to save someone. She knew it was a selfish thought, but why him? Why couldn’t it have been someone else?

In a daze, she headed toward the kitchen.

All this time, John had been dead while she waited, hoping he’d return.

Guilt washed over her for lying to Oliver, but she couldn’t bring herself to tell him. It would tear his heart apart.

She’d tell him the truth when the time was right.

Chapter One

St. Louis, Missouri

1866

The days that followed grew worse. The unbearable pain in her heart transformed into a null, deep void. June could bear the emptiness, but she was afraid to lose memories of John. They would never be a family again. John would never take a walk with her and Oliver at Lafayette Park, where they’d picnic under the monstrous, shady oak trees near the Main Lake.

She remembered admiring the flowering shrubs in spring and the stunning southern magnolias. Occasionally, ducks would sail across the lake, and Oliver would try to chase them but was stopped by the cattails and bulrushes at the edge of the lake.

The sound of Oliver playing in his room with his wooden cars was comforting music to her ears.

She sat on the rocking chair in the parlor, nursing a mug of steaming coffee. She side-glanced the blanket she had been knitting and sighed in defeat.

Her eyes scanned the parlor.

Many a night, she and John would lie near the cast-iron stove and talk about their dreams for the future, including the possibility of having another child. She remembered John was supposed to repair the splintered sash of one of the double-paned windows that overlooked the street.

The lamps needed dusting, but since the news of John, she didn’t desire to do anything. Oliver motivated her to rouse and complete her daily tasks with the pretense that nothing was wrong, but she couldn’t do more than the bare minimum.

Now that her husband was confirmed to be dead, she’d need to organize a small memorial and approach the bank in hopes they would consider lending her a little money until she could find work.

She sipped her coffee, distracted by her thoughts, until a hard double knock at the front door brought her out of her stupor.

Exhaling, she hoped it wasn’t another neighbor offering condolences.

She rocked back in the chair, leaned forward, and shifted weight to her feet. Placing her mug on the old table John had built, she ambled to the door.

Oliver definitely knew something was amiss—he was too clever not to—but she still couldn’t bring herself to tell him about his father.

Her heart twisted at the thought of Oliver finding out through a friend or neighbor, hence her constant fear of visitors.

With reluctance, she swung the door open, and her breath seized in her chest as she stared, wide-eyed, at Richard Courtenay, John’s old friend and a wealthy businessman. Of all people in the world, he was the last person she wanted to see. Before she met John, she’d worked for his father as a maid, and Richard took an unhealthy fancy toward her. Despite her countless rejections, he had continued his inappropriate advances.

That was until she met John, and they fell in love instantly. A few months later, they were engaged, but Richard didn’t accept it and continued his unfitting sensual approaches, made inappropriate comments, and offered expensive gifts, which she rejected. After she told John everything, he insisted she stop working, and the men’s friendship ended, which clearly left a bitter taste in Richard’s mouth. He attempted to use his influence to get the marriage annulled on the grounds of wealth, but his father would never allow him to marry a lady who wasn’t socially affluent.

June was confounded. Even when news of John’s death spread, he didn’t come to offer his condolences, so why was he here now?

A sickening, smug smile tugged at his lips, tipping his mustache upward. Lines formed at the corners of his eyes, but he just leered at her over his aquiline nose. He still donned the mutton-chop sideburns, but his chin no longer sported a beard. His chest puffed up, heightening his matching black coat and waistcoat, covering a high-collared, white shirt, wrapped at the neck by a black bow tie, black trousers, and polished black shoes. In his left hand was a shiny black briefcase.

She exhaled heavily, and instinctively, her hand shot to the collar of her dress, relieved that the top button was firmly fastened.

He removed his silk black top hat. “No need to feel distressed, Mrs. Heaton. Or shall I call you June now?”

“Mrs. Heaton, if you will.” She frowned at the dig of mockery in his voice.

“I’m here on business. May I come in?”

June enjoyed the British accent, but she reviled every word from this man. If it were anyone else, she would close and lock the door.

She took a reluctant step back, allowing him to enter her home.

He stroked his lanky fingers over his light brown hair, parted at one side and combed back from his face.

“My sincere condolences to you and…” he hesitated at the sound of soft footfalls approaching, “your son.” His brows furrowed at the young boy. Averting his eyes, he continued. “John was a dear friend….”

“Hold your tongue,” June demanded, anticipation rushing through her veins. “Not all truth has been spoken of.”

Her eyes darted to Oliver, and his mouth curved into a cynical smile as if he appeared to understand. She refused to allow Oliver to find out about the passing of John from someone as low as Richard.

It would be her. She would tell Oliver about his father.

“I see.” He raised an intrigued, thick eyebrow. Placing his hat over a hat stand positioned near the door, he shrugged off his coat and hung it on one of the four rusty hooks mounted on the wall.

“Hmm, it’s been a while.” His inquisitive eyes roamed from the kitchen to the area where the rooms were located and rested on the parlor. “Doesn’t look much different from the last time I was here.”

He wandered further inside with deliberate, slow steps, heading toward the parlor.

June was appalled that he sauntered into her home as if it was his own, but she wasn’t surprised.

With a gloved hand, he dusted a cream-colored single chair, which John had loved, and sat down, crossing one leg over the other.

“Why are you here?” she said curtly. “I wasn’t expecting anyone. If you sent a message, I didn’t receive it.”

“I didn’t realize I had to send a message. I am a long-time friend.” He leered with a brief snigger.

Anger welled within June, watching Richard make himself comfortable in the chair that John had loved.

“Tea, if you will.” His crooked, toothy grin sent shivers of disgust down her spine.

“I don’t have tea. I can offer coffee, cider, water, or milk.” She sighed, irritated at his outright arrogance in assuming she would offer refreshments.

A pompous smirk crossed his face, his lips curling with amusement. “Well, I suppose coffee will suffice.” A haughty sigh escaped his lips, and his body shuddered. “I cannot do with water or milk, and I am not fond of cider. Are you aware of the diseases that come with those drinks? I detest coffee, but it is tolerable.” Her stomach churned; she could feel his eyes ogling her from head to toe. “A man who drinks tea instead of whiskey and displays sober habits is a good suitor, is he not?”

Gripping the folds of her dress, she remained silent and stormed into the kitchen. Placing her palms on the table, she drew a few breaths to calm her racing heart.

“Who is that man?” Oliver asked. “Will he leave soon?” She lifted her chin, gazing into his crinkled face. “I don’t like him,” he stated.

Chuckling, she gave a small nod and walked over to him. Wrapping her arm around him, she began ruffling his hair.

“Hey, Mam, stop it!”

Giggling, his arms flailed in the air.

She stopped and, with a loving smile, stared into his trusting, bright eyes. “I’ll pour you a cup of cider and some biscuits. Stay in the kitchen while I talk with this man. Before the war, he used to be Dad’s friend.”

“Yay, I’m big enough to have cider now?” Oliver’s face brightened at the offer of cider, which she seldom gave to him. Then, his face paled, as if an unpleasant thought had crossed his mind. “Is it because of that man?”

“No,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t see through the lie. “You’re getting big now.” She rewarded him with a proud smile and stood while he hopped onto a stool at the table.

“Is something happening?”

He stared as June placed a cup of cider and a plate of biscuits in front of him.

She looked away and hastily retrieved a bag of coffee from the pantry.

“No, you enjoy your cider and biscuits.” She feigned a smile, trying to remain composed, and modulated her voice. “It’s just boring grown-up talk.”

Recently, Oliver had started asking questions about anything and everything. He was too perceptive for his own good.

She continued averting her gaze and set a pot of water on the burning brick stove, adding coarse, bean-like grounds into the pot.

June glanced at her son and watched him enjoy the apple cider and biscuits.

They didn’t have much food left, and now that John was gone, she needed to find work, preferably as a maid.

She grabbed two mugs from the cupboard and placed them and a container of sugar on a tray. After pouring the steaming liquid into mugs, she headed toward the parlor.

When she entered and laid the tray on the oak table that Oliver often used to play with his toy cars, Richard’s appearance of inconvenience shifted into one of optimism.

June sat on the two-seater couch opposite him. Rubbing her arm, she watched him reach out for a mug and add sugar.

She reached for her mug and savored its comforting warmth.

“I know it is a difficult time for you.” Richard’s attempt at sympathy failed to reach her ears. “Since John’s been away for so long, and news of his untimely tragic death has spread, there are pressing matters at hand that cannot wait any longer. My hands are tied.” He dug into his briefcase, pulled out sheets of paper, and stacked them on the table.

She noticed the corner of his mouth twitch. “As you can see for yourself, John borrowed a considerable amount of money from the bank, and because of the tremendous outstanding payments, the bank is forced to take possession of this beautiful home to cover those expenses.”

As June welcomed the mug to her lips, she froze. She couldn’t believe what she’d just heard.

Her hands were shaking as she placed the mug on the table.

“What are you saying?” she stammered and took quick, anxious breaths, her voice trembling. “The bank will take everything away from me—from Oliver? All John’s hard work would have been for nothing!”

Tears pricked at the back of her eyes, but she would not cry in front of him.

“I’m afraid so.” Richard rose from the chair with a soft grunt. He shuffled around the table and sat beside her. “But I have a solution that will save your house, my dear.”

The twinkle in his eyes was disconcerting, and his sticky touch over her hand spiraled her gut into an upchuck reflex.

“You do?” She shifted toward the arm of the chair, but his hand tightened over her own.

“It’s quite simple.” His mustache lifted as a twisted smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “After these many years, my affections toward you have never changed. Marry me, and I can make all your troubles go away. I do own banks across the country. Upon my word, John’s debts will be forgotten. You and your son will want for nothing.”

June pulled her hand away. “Richard, no, I can’t marry you. How could you think of such a matter when a memorial has not been arranged yet? I need time to mourn.”

His head shook dramatically, and his eyes rolled to the ceiling. “Of course, I’ll give you the time to grieve, but after that, I’ll expect your hand in marriage.”

Gazing at the pretentious, satisfied expression on his taut, pale face, she realized he was serious. Memories of her working as a maid in his household flooded her mind. She remembered acting as though she were unaware of his vile admiration for her, but she knew that habit wouldn’t work anymore.

Sitting up straight, she asserted, “I think you need to leave. You have overstayed your welcome.”

He lifted her hand mid-air, and his mustache tickled at her knuckles. She balked and tried to back away, lifting her body onto the arm of the chair.

“Don’t be shy.” His voice provoked coercion, and the glint in his eyes was menacing. He leaned forward, and his other hand pressed her cheeks tight, forcing her to look up at him. “Haven’t I always said you’re beautiful?” he whispered through clenched teeth. “If you had married me instead of John, I’d have stayed by your side and never left you.”

“Leave me alone. This act is improper of a…gentleman.” June’s voice trembled, hoping to discourage his actions, and she pushed him back.

He relinquished his grasp on her face.

Stroking her hurting cheeks, she suspected his intentions.

“How dare you? Don’t touch me!” she rasped, and her voice rose, her heart thundering in her ears. She thought of Oliver and lowered her voice. “Leave now, and I’ll forget your brazen, despicable manner. Never come back.”

Panting, she edged further into the arm of the chair.

“You play me for a fool, don’t you?” His pretentious, dreadful smile widened, and he chuckled with a hint of foul play. “What woman would be senseless to deny me? John is not here to save you, is he?” His lips tightened, and his eyes flashed. “What did John have that I didn’t? He was a penniless vagrant I took pity on.”

She stared at him in horror.

How dare he say such things about John?

A mix of anger and fear surrounded her heart, crawling under her skin and setting the hairs on her arms on end.

He was much too close to her.

Before she could say anything more, he lunged forward.

Leaning back, she shrieked and tumbled to the floor.

In a trance-like state, she attempted to escape, but he grabbed her dress and pulled, trying to bring her closer to him. She kicked him, and he yelled out, temporarily releasing her before grabbing her with both hands.

“Leave…leave my Mam alone!” Oliver’s stuttering carried through the room.

June’s heart raced, and panic overtook her senses. “Go, Oliver, run!”

Ignoring the young boy, Richard sneered. “What can a child do?”

“Let me go!”