Prologue

1882

Fort Riley, Kansas

Rachel had never needed to shoot anyone before. But now, she just might. It was dark in the cellar. The smell of smoke filled the air. A thin layer of sweat coated her skin. She sniffed several times, taking in nostrils full of thin smoke. Her trembling hands clutched the Smith and Wesson that her adoptive father, Robert, had given her to protect herself.

She knew how to use it—he’d made sure of that. She shuddered when she pushed the doors to the cellar open; they were hot against her hands. The hinges on the doors creaked loudly into the night, and Rachel winced. The sound rose above the sound of the crackling fire as her house burned down. I hope no one heard that, Rachel thought to herself.

In the doorway of the cellar, the flames that engulfed her wooden home licked at her skirt. She moved as quickly as her feet would allow, running for the dense forested area at the edge of her family’s property. Droplets of her mother’s and father’s blood dried on her forehead and shoulders. Her typically bright blue eyes were now puffy and red-rimmed. The two tidy braids she always wore were disheveled and coated in ash. The edges of her lilac-hued silk skirt were singed. She fidgeted with her braids before stopping herself. There is no sense in worrying about appearances at a time like this.

The sound of a man’s surprised yells cut through the air. Has someone seen me? She didn’t dare look back behind her as her feet pounded against the hard earth. The men grew closer. Finally, Rachel reached the woods, her heart beating against her ribs like a trapped bird’s wings beat against their cage. Hiding in a hollowed-out tree that she’d first discovered when she moved in with her new mother and father after being adopted, she dared let out the breath she had been holding in.

Rachel knew this tree well, her fingers feeling for the initials she carved into the hollow when she was fifteen. This tree had been a great comfort to her when she’d first arrived home with the Joneses—a place to hide where no eyes would be on her. However, she noted the hollow of the tree was much more cramped now than when she’d first discovered it.

Her legs had lengthened considerably in the past five years. She was tall, like her birth father’s side of the family. An aching in her knee alerted her to the idea that she couldn’t hide in the tree too long or she might not be able to walk when she left it.

Where else can I go? Her mind raced but failed to think of any other place that would secure her out of sight. Not while Doyle and his men were looking for her, at least. She swallowed hard at the thought. Her heart galloped so fast she feared the sound of it would give away her position. She clutched her stomach as it churned. She was being hunted; she couldn’t quite wrap her mind around it as the hazy memories of what just happened swirled around in her head as the smoke coming from her burning home swirled in the air.

Many months back, Robert had discussed the Doyle Fletcher case during dinner one night. From what she could recall him saying, Doyle Fletcher might have been the best shot in the west, but before he was put behind bars, a trail of bodies was left in his wake wherever he went. To Rachel, he’d sounded like nothing but a wretched excuse for a man.

Now that Rachel’s family was part of that trail, she knew she’d been right to think so. Rachel’s life had just been destroyed in a matter of minutes. My mother and father are dead. The words resounded through her head like a somber drum. The ache of her heart reminded her these terrible words were all too true.

The gun her father had given her was heavy in her hands, heavy with the weight of what she might need to do. Can I shoot a man? Even an evil man like Doyle Fletcher? A lump rose in Rachel’s throat as she thought once more about the sound of the gunshots that ended her parents’ lives. The sickening thud of their bodies on the floor above her shook dust onto her head and shoulders. Blood dripped warmly onto her while she struggled to stay silent.

Even her dog, Sir Ravenous, had become a casualty. Rachel’s shoulders rolled forward, and she hung her head, but she did not loosen her grip on the gun clutched between her fingers and her palm. Her head hurt as she recalled her dog barking, the expression on her mother and father’s eyes as they exchanged glances when the dog went silent with a final yelp, her mother’s hand gripped tightly on her arm as she plucked her from her seat at the table shushing herself with the pointer finger on her other hand.

Rachel’s stomach had dropped and she struggled to keep down her dinner. She remembered the way her father’s jaw was set as she looked back at him rising steadily from his seat. Her mother pulled her toward her favorite rocking chair—the chair she would sit in and knit by the fire after dinner, contented with the day.

Recklessly, her mother had pushed the chair over using just enough restraint of her strength to keep the chair from falling over and making a ruckus. Flipping back the corner of the worn wool rug, she’d revealed a wood covered cut out in the floor. A trap door, Rachel had wondered incredulously. Releasing Rachel’s arm, she’d tucked her fingers carefully under the edges of the cut out and lifted it.

“You need to get in, don’t worry there’s not much of a drop. You need to let your arms dangle before you dropped.” Rachel had stood there, unable to move with her bottom lip dropped, leaving her mouth slightly ajar.

“Hurry,” her father whispered as he made his way back from a cabinet across the room. A gun clutched in his hands.

Rachel’s blood ran cold as her mother nudged her. “Get down there.”

She took a deep breath and did as she’d been told. Her toes touched the ground below before she needed to release her arms as they held onto the floor above her. The hole was just big enough so that Robert would be able to get through, but that was all. Rachel imagined it would be a squeeze even then for him to get down there.

But her mother made no move to come down there with her, and neither did her father. Instead, he knelt down and peered into the hole in the floor. Rachel stood on her tip-toes and looked up at him, biting her bottom lip. She fiddled with her braids but quickly let go when her father shoved his gun toward her.

“But,” Rachel protested, “why can’t you guys come down here with me?” Tears welled in her eyes, and her throat betrayed her with a crack on the word here.

“We can’t risk whoever this is coming to look for us, your best chance for survival is on your own now. We promised to protect you when we adopted you and that is what we will do.” He nodded at Rachel with an apologetic glint in his eye.

Rachel’s mother appeared beside her husband, her lips constricted in a forced smile and her eyebrows knit with worry. “We love you, Rachel.”

“If it comes down to it, I want you to shoot without hesitation and with reckless abandon for whoever may be on the other end of your gun. Do you got that, Rachel?”

Rachel gulped, but her mouth was so dry she could hardly suffer through it without coughing. “I love you too,” she’d said with tears in her eyes as the trap door was put back in place, and Rachel was left in the darkness of the cellar that ran beneath her house. The distinct smell of earthy potatoes filled her nostrils. She stood frozen, listening as the rug was plopped back down and the rocking chair was put back in place. The light that had once poured in from the edges of the opening disappeared.

Her eyes darted around; moonlight poured in through the cracks of the wooden door leading outside to the back of the house. Should I run? Her hand flew toward the end of her braid as anxious fingers began to fiddle with her tie.

A loud splintering sound filled the cellar, and Rachel heard her father’s voice steady and calm through the floorboards, “Doyle Fletcher, what’s got you out of your cell and paying me a visit tonight?”

Heavy footsteps shook the floorboards above her head; Doyle wasn’t alone. He didn’t speak as clearly as her father, and it was difficult for Rachel to make out exactly what he was saying. Rachel sucked in a breath, willing her heart to settle down so that she could hear what was happening just above her head.

“Listen, Doyle, why don’t you give me a chance, and we can do this the right way. As it stands, you’re a wanted man. Don’t you see I can help you?” Her father’s voice came through the floorboards once more.

Doyle Fletcher and a few others laughed heartily. At their coarse sound of their laughter, Rachel’s stomach felt as though a sailor had been practicing tying knots with her intestines. Then Rachel’s heart nearly stopped as she heard two clear shots ringing out into the night, followed by the dull, heavy thuds hitting the floor. The sickening sounds were followed by another round of raucous laughter from the invaders.

Rachel’s blood boiled; she had the naive desire to shoot up through the floor. Instead, she stood frozen in that same spot in the cellar, teeth sunk into her hand. When she finally found it in her to move, she merely released her hand from between her teeth and shook her head silently.

***

At a mere thirteen, Rachel had been world weary as if she had lived countless lives. Her stomach was sour and grumbled every few seconds. She could hardly muscle the weight of her own clothes without collapsing. For three years, she’d been doing her best to come by honest work, foraging in the woods on the edge of town when she could, and attempting to fish in a nearby stream. It had been this way since her parents had died when she was ten years old.

One day in the market square, the rich, buttery aroma of freshly baked bread overwhelmed her senses. Her belly begged to be filled. As though her desperate stomach had taken over her brain, she stole a loaf of bread. Running off as quickly as she could, which, in her weakened state, was not very quick at all. She wasn’t a practiced thief, and she’d been caught crouching behind a building, a nearly devoured loaf of bread in her hand, mouth full, and crumbs covering her clothes.

Rachel had been promptly arrested and placed in a jail cell. She had known she was in trouble, but it had been the most peaceful night’s sleep she’d had in three years. At least in that cell, she didn’t have to sleep with one eye open.

The next day, Rachel had been sent to trial. Judge Robert Jones presided over her case. There was no contesting the fact that she had stolen the bread. But the judge saw something in her, and he’d decided to adopt her with his wife, Emma. They’d never been blessed with children of their own. That is until the fateful day God put Rachel in Robert’s courtroom—at least, that’s how he’d put it to Rachel.

Ever since that day, her father had been kind, fair, and patient with her. Even when she kept running off to hide in this very same hollow in the tree, no matter how late she’d arrived back home in the beginning, there was always a bowl of food waiting for her and some of Emma’s delicious freshly baked bread.

Rachel shifted her leg in the hollow; her knee ached, but it was nothing compared to her now broken heart. I am sorry, Mother; I am sorry, Father, Rachel thought to herself, I should have saved you. She shook her head, a tear rolling down her cheek. If she ever had the chance, Rachel promised herself, she would make Doyle Fletcher pay for what he’d done. Her stomach dropped just at the thought of the man; he was a cold-blooded murderer, too, and Rachel was a witness.

Her body jerked in pain as a pair of hands roughly grabbed her shoulders. Each finger dug in deep as though they were trying to get in between the fibers of her muscles. Rachel tightened her grip on the gun as her body was pulled from her secret hiding place.

A tall, slender man loomed in front of her. The moonlight shining through the tree was just bright enough for her to take in his features. His nose was long and narrow, with a dimpling of scars across his cheeks and nose. His eyes were narrow, dark, and fixated on Rachel in a way that made her want to crawl out of her own flesh. He had thin lips twisted into a wicked smile. “Well, what have we here?”

By the sound of his voice, Rachel knew this man was Doyle Fletcher.

“A rather pretty thing, aren’t you?” Doyle leered, darting his tongue out over his lip. His fingers dug harder into her already sore shoulders.

Rachel shivered and remembered the gun in her hands and what her father had told her. Rachel did her best to aim the gun—poised to kill—and take the shot. The quiet of the night was disturbed by another loud popping sound, followed by the pained scream of a man. Every sound reverberated off the trees around them, and Rachel’s heart raced. All those worries for nothing. I was able to use the gun after all, she thought darkly as she willed her feet to move as quickly as she could.

There was no looking back now, even as Doyle cursed and yelled after her. She heard the rustling of brush and the snapping of twigs as two of Doyle’s men rushed to his side. Doyle’s voice barked madly after her, “You mark my words, I will find you and I will kill you! You can run all you want, but this won’t be the last time you see my face; I can promise you that.”

Rachel kept moving, but Doyle’s words echoed around in her head. The adrenaline coursing through her veins was so intense that she misjudged the length of her stride. Her foot hit a dip in the terrain ahead and Rachel’s body flew toward the ground. Her ankle ached instantly. As she fell, she tried to catch herself from face-planting, but the gun flew from her hands. She landed with a hard thud and a searing pain in her right hand. The sensation of fresh blood warmed the top of her hand.

Rachel scrambled nervously to find the gun, feeling around in the darkness. Eventually, she found it a few feet behind where she’d tripped. Rachel huffed, noticing that her bodice and skirt were completely ruined. The only clothes she had in the world, and they were singed, muddy, and covered in blood. She fiddled with her braids before deciding that even if she redid her hair, she’d still be a complete wreck. Her muscles were sore, the cuts on her hands stung, and her ankle hurt.

All of that was nothing compared to the pain in her chest and the giant lump in her throat, making it difficult for her to swallow. She had to keep it together the best that she could, so Rachel tried not to look back. As much as she wanted to break down in tears, she needed to figure out what to do next. Her hand was still bleeding, her ankle was sore, and caused her to limp; she couldn’t keep running like this.

She needed to find a place to hide—somewhere that she couldn’t be found so easily if the bandits came through. Looking around, Rachel remembered how easily Doyle had plucked her from the hollow of the tree before. I need an advantage, she thought to herself as her eyes landed on a tree ahead of her with perfect branches for climbing. Her ankle and hands stung as she climbed, but she managed to struggle up the tree.

Even hours after she’d been crouched amongst the branches, she could smell the smoke like a giant campfire from her log home as it continued to smolder. Everything was lost, and Rachel was heartbroken, but she couldn’t allow herself to think about everyone she’d lost, or she feared she might fall right out of the tree even though it felt like stones had been placed on her chest. She could only manage short, shallow breaths. “Am I going to be alone forever?” Rachel whispered as she clung to the trunk of the tree she’d climbed.

As the sun finally rose, Rachel understood that she couldn’t hide in this tree forever. As golden rays of light filtered through the tree tops, she figured it was a good enough time as any to climb down. She looked down at her injured hand in the light of the day. Dried blood obscured the wound; Rachel spat on the inside of her skirt and rubbed at the wound.

Once she’d gotten the dried blood cleared up well enough, she took stock of her injury. The cut on her hand was deep and surrounded by red, irritated skin. If she wasn’t able to tend to it soon, she’d get an infection. Where can I go, she mused helplessly. There was no home left to go back to. She couldn’t even bury her parents properly like they deserved. Every time she allowed herself to think about the Joneses, she felt like she’d been punched in the throat.

There was really only one place she could think to go—Isabella Robertson’s. Isabella was an older woman who kept a plain and tidy appearance. Her hair was graying, and she wore it in a neat chignon. She wore tasteful bodices and skirts made from practical wool in the winter and good, sturdy cotton in the summer—never anything too bright or garish.

Her husband had died years before, leaving her on her own. Isabella also happened to be the only home that was near us for miles and miles around. She’d always been a good friend to Rachel, so Rachel hoped she’d extend the same kindness she always had now in her time of need.

When she finally arrived at Isabella’s, she was limping and looking like she’d just come out of a swamp. Isabella opened the door, her eyes widening at the sight of Rachel. She frowned deeply, causing heavy creases to form on her face, and hurried her inside. She scanned the surrounding landscape for trouble with a keen eye before shutting her door.

Once the door was shut behind her, Isabella drew the simple raw-cotton curtains closed. Looking the bedraggled Rachel up and down, she finally spoke.

“Rachel Jones, what kind of mess are you in?” She asked like a school teacher scolding their pupil while dampening a rag in her water basin.

“It’s not just me,” tears rose in Rachel’s eyes, the weight of her loss pressing on her more and more. “It’s Doyle Fletcher. He escaped from jail and he came after Robert…”

Isabella’s eyebrows knitted together, and she frowned. “Fletcher’s out of jail?”

“Yes, I saw him with my own eyes. I…I shot him,” Rachel stammered in a whisper and rocked momentarily as though she would faint. Her eyes were unfocused. She swayed gently from side to side. The walls appeared to be closing in on her. She took a deep breath and blinked a few times, attempting to get her bearings back. Rachel continued, “Isabella, he…he killed Robert and Emma. He killed my mother and father—shot them dead while I hid in the cellar.”

Saying those words out loud finally broke the dam of tears that were welled up within Rachel. She sobbed and sobbed, shoulder shaking violently, while Isabella fussed to get a bath ready for Rachel. Isabella heated water in a kettle on the wood-burning stove. It took quite a few kettles to fill the wash basin with enough boiled water to make it warm.

“You’ve got to get out of those clothes and get yourself cleaned up.”

She smiled at Rachel—a sad smile without any crinkling around her eyes, the kind of smile that suggested she felt sorry for Rachel. Rachel looked down at her clothes, remembering what a terrible state she was in. Her clothes were destroyed, and they looked even worse in the light of day. Her braids were dusty with bits of leaves and twigs left behind in them. Rachel could feel that her eyes were puffy from all of her tears spilled; it was difficult to keep them open.

“I am sorry you have to see me like this.” Rachel managed to croak out. “Thank you for preparing a bath for me.”

“Seeing you like this is nothing compared to what you’ve been through, so don’t you apologize again, Rachel Jones. Now, go on and get cleaned up.”

After her bath, Rachel felt a bit steadied. Her wounds had stung in the heat of the water—not just her hand but all the little cuts and abrasions across her ankles, arms, and cheeks from whipping through the brush in the darkness. Rachel dressed in an out-of-fashion dress Isabella had given her. The dress had a caged crinoline and a short bodice. It was a faded, dusty blue silk. Isabel had apologized for the dress about a hundred times, but Rachel didn’t mind in the least.

“What am I going to do now?” Rachel asked Isabella while sitting in a rocking chair near the heat of the stove in the kitchen. She couldn’t quite seem to get the chill out of her bones. Her words sounded strange and strangled, her sore throat making her clear feminine voice sound hoarse.

“I don’t have much to offer you, but I could give you a room of your own. I could use some help around here; my back doesn’t seem to have the strength it used to have in my younger years.” She let out a chuckle.

“Isabella, I can’t in good conscience put you in that sort of danger. Doyle Fletcher might be nursing his wounds now, but he will come looking for me when he heals.

Isabella seemed to consider this information. After a long pause, she spoke again. Looking at Rachel earnestly, she said, “I have an idea but you may not like it.” Her heart skipped a beat, Rachel didn’t have any options at the moment, and she was eager to hear any ideas that Isabella had for her. “Have you ever considered answering one of those advertisements in the paper? You know, young men looking for wives? You’re eighteen now. A husband could help protect and take care of you.”

Rachel’s eyes widened. She’d never really thought of herself as a wife. She certainly had never imagined herself marrying someone she’d never met before. But the more she sat there ruminating, the more she realized she couldn’t afford to be too picky right now. A husband would protect her and provide her with security, somewhere Doyle wouldn’t know to look for her. It was as good of an idea as any other.

“I have never even thought to read that part of the paper,” Rachel’s attempt at a smile was met with a knowing smile from Isabella. “I hardly feel like I am ready to home-make, but now I don’t think there’s much else for me to do. I don’t want to go back to living on the streets…” She sighed, a soft, tremulous sound like a baby bird taking its first gasping breaths. “It might be my best option.”

Isabella smiled warmly and hopped up from her seat with extreme exuberance for a woman of her age. She made her way into the other room, and when she returned, she handed Rachel a small fabric-covered box. Rachel hesitated, holding the box in her hands. Would this small box contain a message from her savior?

“Go on then, open it up!” Isabella interrupted her thoughts.

Rachel’s fingers worked carefully to pry the lid off of the box. Inside were several newspaper clippings—advertisements from men looking for wives.

“Why do you have these?” Rachel looked up from the newspaper clippings and over at Isabella, half-amused.

“I have been saving them for you. I knew the time would come soon enough for you to strike out on your own. Of course, I’d always imagined it under far less tragic circumstances.”

“Saving them for me?” Rachel was a little flabbergasted.

“Don’t be so shocked Rachel, you’re a young woman now. You ought to experience the joys of marriage and building a family.”

Rachel jumped up and gave Isabella a hug. Isabella held her tightly in her sturdy frame and Rachel let out an involuntary sigh of relief. The first day she’d met Isabella nearly five years ago, Isabella had found her in the woods. She had an old woven basket filled with wild strawberries. “Well,” she’d said to Rachel, “are you just going to stand there and stare or will you help an old woman pick some berries?” They’d spend the rest of the afternoon picking berries. Isabella invited her over the next day to help her make some jam with the berries they’d picked. Rachel was there the next morning with a grin on her face.

Since that first day in the woods, Rachel had figured they were kindred spirits. It wasn’t until later in Isabella’s kitchen, with a simmering pot of strawberry jam on the stove, that she’d learned about Isabella’s own tragedies. A photo on her wall showed a younger Isabella with two small babies in her arms and a dashing man standing beside them.

“Is this your family? Where are they?” Rachel had asked.

Isabella’s eyes welled with tears as she stood beside Rachel, staring at the photo. She was silent for a while, and then she finally spoke, “That was my family. They’re all gone now. My two little ones died of smallpox, and my husband died years later, though no doctor could tell me what of.” She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand and then put her hands on her hips.

“My birth parents died of smallpox too,” Rachel said wistfully, “when I was ten.”

Isabella slid an arm over Rachel’s shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze before saying, “Come on now, the jam won’t stir itself.”

Now, Rachel and Isabella were alone together once again. A pang of guilt hit Rachel as she realized that she’d soon be leaving Isabella completely on her own. She shook off the thought; it was better than being the reason Isabella was killed. “So,” Rachel said, “all of these advertisements are lonely men looking for wives?”

“Yes, I picked out the best ads to save. Only the men I believed you would get on with best. Some are a little outdated, though I tried my best to be rid of the older ads as I put newer ones in the box.”

Rachel nodded, absentmindedly running her fingers over the stack of advertisements in the box. Isabella continued speaking to Rachel though she was only half listening distracted by the newspaper clippings in her hands.

“I move in the best society…” Rachel set that one aside, feeling it began in a rather pompous nature, and imagined it belonged to an even more pompous man.

“Wanted someone to love, who will be true and sweet.” Rachel set this one aside, too; she was not looking for true love. She sought protection.

“You can stay here in the meantime while you correspond with your potential husbands. But it’d be safer for the both of us if you stayed inside and away from the windows.”

Rachel nodded. Her heartbeat quickened at the thought of Doyle Fletcher, and she set the papers she’d been holding down into the box. It was only a matter of time before he found her. She just hoped that she’d have found a husband who lived away from Fort Riley before then.

“Go on dear, let’s find some nice young men for you to correspond with,” Isabella encouraged her.

Rachel settled on three different advertisements, one of which Isabella had informed her she’d added only yesterday. With gifted ink and paper, Rachel sat at the kitchen table and wrote her first letters to each of the gentlemen who’d placed ads. A small sense of hopefulness filled her spirit as she wrote. The man from the advertisement that Isabella had added yesterday described himself as a twenty-six-year-old rancher who was tall with sandy brown hair and green eyes.

Rachel rather liked the idea of living on a ranch away from the prying eyes of others, and she rather liked green eyes. As she wrote to him, she harbored secret hopes that this man would respond back to her, and quickly. Rachel didn’t have much left, but what she did have left, Isabella, she wanted to protect. So, there she was in Isabella’s kitchen, hoping to marry a man that she could have gone her whole life without knowing he existed.