Prologue

Dodge City, Kansas, January 1879

“No!” Clara screamed, rushing to her son’s side, her heart pounding with terror. She fell to the floor, cradling the four-year-old in her arms, her hands shaking as she tried to assess the damage.

The front door slammed, and Clara turned to find the kitchen empty. Her husband Martin had stormed out, leaving them in the suffocating silence of his absence.

But at least he was gone for now.

As Clara sat holding her small son, his words echoed in her head rebounding off the walls of her skull. “Leave Mama alone!”

“It’s all right, Ethan,” she soothed, her voice trembling. “Everything is going to be all right.”

Ethan whimpered as Clara reached for the cloth that hung over the back of the kitchen chair. She pressed the cloth to Ethan’s face, her eyes tracing the deep, jagged cut that now marred his smooth cheek.

The small kitchen in their modest home in Dodge City, Kansas, felt even smaller tonight. The flickering lamplight cast long, wavering shadows on the wooden walls, making the room feel like it was closing in around her.

Martin had come home that evening in one of his dark moods, the kind that made Clara’s stomach knot with dread. He’d been drinking, as usual, and was looking to pick a fight, as usual.

Clara had sent Ethan to his room as soon as she’d seen the state Martin was in. No sooner had the little boy left, then his father started shouting about everything—the state of the house, the meager rations on the table for dinner, how much money Clara had spent on them.

Clara had tried to calm him, to deflect his rage, but her words only seemed to fuel his fury. He’d grabbed her, shaking her so hard it made her teeth rattle.

Then, all at once, Ethan was there. He grabbed the end of Martin’s untucked shirt, pulling with all his might, as he attempted to pull Martin off Clara.

In a blind rage, Martin had lashed out, shoving Ethan aside with brutal force. Clara watched in helpless horror as Ethan stumbled, his head striking the edge of the wooden table with a sickening thud.

Now, Ethan’s small, calloused hand reached up to touch her cheek, drawing her thoughts back to the present.

“Mama, it’s okay,” he said softly, his voice trembling.

She cupped his hand in hers, squeezing it gently. “I know, sweetheart. I know. Your father…he just…he just has a hard time, you know? He doesn’t mean to be this way.”

But even as she spoke the words, she hated herself for saying them. Excuses. They were all just excuses. And she was tired of making them.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?” Clara said.

Soon, the air was thick with the smell of homemade remedies, vinegar, saltwater, and the faint metallic tang of blood.

“Hold still, Ethan,” Clara whispered as she dabbed at her son’s wound.

Ethan winced but didn’t pull away, his wide hazel eyes staring up at her, filled with trust. His young face, usually so full of life but now etched with pain, made her heart ache.

“It’s not so bad,” she said, forcing a smile she didn’t feel. “We’ll have you patched up in no time, and you’ll be as good as new.”

She couldn’t keep her hand from shaking as she reached for the bandages. Her mind raced, replaying the brutal scene over and over. Martin had taken it too far this time. The fury in his eyes, the way he’d lashed out—it was different. Worse. Her husband’s abusive behavior had always been her burden to bear, but now he had hurt their son.

Clara swallowed hard, pushing down the rage that threatened to consume her. How could he? How could he do this to their boy?

In all her years, Clara knew she would never forget the fear. It was something entirely tangible, as if she could actually taste it.

She wrapped the bandage around Ethan’s head, her fingers deft and practiced from years of tending to wounds both big and small. But this one was more severe than most. This one would leave a scar.

“Does it hurt much?” she asked, her voice cracking despite her efforts to keep it calm.

Ethan shook his head, but the tears in his eyes betrayed him. “Not too much,” he whispered.

Clara blinked back her own tears, brushing a lock of curly chestnut brown hair away from his forehead. “You’re so brave,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “You’re my brave little man.”

Ethan managed a small smile, but it quickly faded. “Will he be mad?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

Clara’s heart shattered at the question. “No, darling. No. Your father won’t be mad. You just rest now, all right? Mama’s here. Mama’s got you.”

She pulled him into a gentle hug, careful not to jostle his injury, and kissed the top of his head. The familiar scent of his hair, the warmth of his small body pressed against hers—it was both comforting and heartbreaking. She picked him up, holding him tightly, wishing she could shield him from all the hurt in the world, especially the hurt that came from the man who was supposed to protect them both.

As Ethan’s breathing slowed and he drifted into a restless sleep, Clara allowed herself a moment of vulnerability. Silent tears streamed down her face, dripping onto Ethan’s bandages. She wiped them away quickly, not wanting him to wake and see her crying. She had to be strong. For Ethan. For herself.

But inside, she was a storm of fear and fury. Martin had gone too far this time. Something had to change. They couldn’t keep living like this. Ethan deserved better. She deserved better.

As she sat, her mind drifted to thoughts of escape. They could run away and leave this wretched place behind. But where would they go? How would they survive? What little money Martin made he usually gambled or drank away. Over the years, Clara secretly took coins from his pockets while he slept, but they were used to buy food for Ethan. There was no extra. They had no savings, and no family nearby to turn to for help.

If they left, would they end up in the streets, begging for scraps? The thought terrified her. But the thought of staying, of exposing Ethan to more of Martin’s brutality, terrified her even more. There had to be a way out. She had to find it.

Clara smoothed Ethan’s hair one last time and stood up, her legs feeling like they might give way beneath her. She looked around the small kitchen—the chipped wooden table, the worn-out chairs, the threadbare curtains.

This was their home, but it was also a prison. And she had to find a way to break free.

After a while, Clara gently carried Ethan, his small body limp and heavy with sleep, to his room. The space was barely more than a closet, with no window to let in light or fresh air.

She placed him down on the narrow cot, the springs creaking under his weight. The quilt she pulled over him was the same one she had as a girl, its faded patches a stark reminder of her past.

Sitting beside him for a moment, she listened to his steady breathing, a small comfort in the suffocating darkness. The dimly lit room closed in around her, the weight of her life pressing heavily on her shoulders. She had always wanted more for Ethan, more than this cramped room and the constant fear that defined their days.

Her mind drifted back to her own childhood, to the long, happy, lazy, hazy summer days. She remembered riding bareback, the wind in her face, feeling free and unburdened. Her big, beautiful bedroom where the afternoon light spilled through the windows, casting golden beams on the yellow daisy wallpaper. She had felt safe and loved, her world full of promise and possibility. Those memories were the things that fortified her against the hardships of adult life.

But what did Ethan have? A happy childhood? No, he wouldn’t—not if they continued like this. His memories would be of fear, pain, and a mother who couldn’t protect him from his father’s rage.

Clara felt a lump in her throat, the guilt and helplessness threatening to overwhelm her.

This was not the life she had envisioned for her son. She had dreamed of giving him the same happiness she had known, of filling his days with joy and laughter.

Clara left Ethan’s room, closing the door behind her. She walked back to the kitchen, her steps heavy with exhaustion. There, she surveyed the scene, the chaos left in the wake of Martin’s rage. A chair lay on its side, and the table was strewn with the remnants of their meager supper.

She picked up the chair first, setting it upright with a soft thud. Then she began to clear the table, her movements methodical, almost mechanical. Her life had become this: just going through the paces, surviving from one day to the next.

She scraped the cold stew into the slop bucket, wiped down the rough wooden surface, and placed the dishes in the wash basin. Each task was a small effort to bring order to the chaos, a temporary distraction from the crushing weight of her reality.

When the kitchen was clean, she allowed herself a moment to breathe. The quiet settled around her, the only sound the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. She went to check on Ethan again, peeking into his room. He was still asleep, his small chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Relief washed over her, but it was fleeting.

As she turned to leave, she heard the front porch creak. She froze, her heart pounding in her chest. Martin. Her first instinct was to protect Ethan, to shield him from whatever fury Martin might bring home.

She stood still, listening. Then came a knock at the door. She frowned, confusion mingling with fear. Martin wouldn’t knock.

She hesitated, her mind racing through the possibilities. Another knock, more insistent this time, echoed through the silent house. She took a deep breath, steeling herself, and walked to the door.

stood in the dimly lit hallway, her hand trembling on the doorknob. When she finally opened the door, she was surprised to see Mr. Henderson standing on the porch, his cap clutched in his hands. He wore a thick woolen coat that was frayed on the cuffs.

“Mr. Henderson,” she said quietly to her neighbor. “What brings you here at this hour?”

The older man hesitated. The lines on his weathered face seemed deeper, the wrinkles around his mouth tight with worry. Clara’s initial thought was that he had come to check on her, as he had done before, but there was something different in his expression tonight.

He took a step forward, exhaling heavily, and twisted his cap in his hands. “Mrs. Lawson, I…I have some bad news.”

Clara’s breath caught in her chest. A cold dread settled over her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Mr. Henderson looked down at his cap, his voice strained. “There’s been an accident.”

“What kind of accident?” Clara asked, her voice trembling.

“I was at the general store getting some things for Mrs. Henderson when I heard it—the screams,” he said, his eyes filled with sorrow. “I rushed outside and saw… Mr. Lawson. Martin. He’d stepped in the road, right under the wheels of a buggy. He was crushed, Clara.”

Clara’s mouth went dry, the words sinking in slowly.

“He’s dead, Mrs. Lawson,” Mr. Henderson said softly.

At first, Clara didn’t comprehend what he was saying, the words seeming foreign and distant.

“Did you hear me?” Mr. Henderson asked.

She nodded dumbly, her mind struggling to process the news. Martin was dead? Gone forever?

The weight of it hit her all at once. Martin, the man who had brought so much fear and pain into their lives, was gone. She felt a strange mix of emotions—relief, confusion, guilt. Her legs felt weak, and she grasped the door frame for support.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Lawson?” Mr. Henderson asked, his concern evident.

“I… I don’t know,” she admitted. “I don’t know what to say.”

Mr. Henderson reached out and gently placed a hand on her shoulder. “Is there anything I can do for you, Mrs. Lawson?”

She shook her head slowly. “No,” she said. “Thank you but no. I just need a moment.”

He nodded understandingly. “If you need anything, anything at all, you know where to find us.”

She nodded, feeling as if she were in a daze. “Thank you for telling me, Mr. Henderson.”

Mr. Henderson bowed his head then turned to go. Clara stood in the doorway a while longer, her mind racing. Then she turned, closing the door behind her.

Martin was dead. The thought echoed in her mind, surreal and disorienting. He would never hurt her or Ethan again. They were free.

But with that freedom came a new wave of uncertainty.

Chapter One

Dodge City, Kansas, April 1879

“What do you mean we will lose the house?” Clara’s voice trembled as she spoke, her hands clutching the edge of the worn kitchen table.

The young lawyer, Mr. Bennett, with his sharp nose and pointed chin, leaned forward in his chair. His eyes, though kind, were filled with an uncomfortable duty.

“Mrs. Lawson, I’m afraid it’s true,” he said, his tone regrettable. “Your husband took out a second mortgage on the property to cover his gambling debts. He defaulted on all repayments. As a result, the house now belongs to the bank.”

Clara felt the room spin around her, the weight of his words crashing down like a hammer. “But… but we’ve barely scraped by these past few months since he died. How can we be homeless now?

The lawyer’s expression softened, though it did little to ease the blow. “I wish there was better news, Mrs. Lawson,” he said. “I truly do. The bank is willing to give you some time to make arrangements.”

Clara’s mind raced. She’d fought so hard to keep things together, to create some semblance of a normal life for Ethan amidst the chaos. And now this? The home she had struggled to maintain, the only stability they had, was being taken from them.

Tears pricked at her eyes, but she blinked them back. She couldn’t afford to break down now.

“How much time do we have?” she asked

“A week, two at most,” Mr. Bennett replied. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Lawson. I wish there was more I could do.”

Clara nodded, unable to drum up a response. She glanced at Ethan playing quietly in the corner of the room, blissfully unaware of the storm that was about to upend their lives.

The lawyer gathered his papers, giving Clara a moment of privacy.

“If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to reach out,” he said as he got up from the chair. “I’ll do what I can to assist you.”

“Thank you,” Clara managed to whisper, though the words felt hollow. She watched as he left, closing the door softly behind him.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Clara sat in the middle of the kitchen, the weight of the past few months crashing down on her. Martin’s death had been a confusing mix of relief and uncertainty, but this—this was a new kind of devastation.

After a moment, she walked over to Ethan, her legs as heavy as lead. She knelt beside him and stroked his hair, her heart aching with the thought of what lay ahead.

He looked up at her. “What’s wrong, Mama?” he asked.

Clara took a deep breath. “Nothing sweetheart,” she said. “Everything’s fine.”

Ethan turned back to his wooden train set and Clara got up, turning away from him so he wouldn’t see her cry.

***

A few days later, Clara walked up the path to the Henderson’s house, her steps heavy with exhaustion. It had been a long week, filled with fruitless job searches and mounting anxiety about their future. She knocked on the door, and Mrs. Henderson answered with a warm smile.

“Hello, Clara,” she said brightly. “Ethan’s in the garden with Mr. Henderson, planting bulbs.”

Clara smiled. Mr. and Mrs. Henderson were kind people and they doted on Ethan as if they were his surrogate grandparents. She was glad for it.

“Ethan loves having his hands in the dirt,” Clara said.

“Him and my husband both,” Mrs. Henderson chuckled. “Would you like to come in for some tea? Mr. Henderson takes his spring bulb planting very seriously. I doubt they’ll be done anytime soon.”

Clara nodded, grateful for the offer of a brief respite. “Thank you,” she said. “I could use a cup of tea.”

The bright, airy room was a stark contrast to her own home. Sunshine streamed through the lace curtains, illuminating the cozy furnishings and tidy shelves lined with knick-knacks and books.

Clara sat down at the round wooden table, her eyes following Mrs. Henderson as she bustled about the kitchen. She was a short woman with a mop of gray curls that seemed to rule the crown of her head. She was always dressed in pastel colors with a crisp white apron fastened firmly around her waist.

“Any luck finding work?” Mrs. Henderson asked, her voice gentle as she reached for the tea tin.

Clara sighed, shaking her head. “No,” she admitted. “It’s hard to find anyone willing to hire a woman, especially one with a young child. Most places want younger girls or men.”

Mrs. Henderson pursed her lips, a frown creasing her forehead.” I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “But you know you’re welcome to leave Ethan with us whenever you need to. He’s a joy to have around, and it’s no trouble at all.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Henderson,” Clara replied. “It’s very kind of you, but I can’t impose on you like that.”

Mrs. Henderson shook her head. “Nonsense,” she said “You’re not imposing. We’re happy to help.”

Clara looked down at her tea, feeling a mix of gratitude and despair. She appreciated all the help that the Hendersons had given her over the past couple of months, but this couldn’t last forever. Soon they would lose the house and the Hendersons were elderly and retired. She couldn’t expect them to take her and Ethan in and share what little they had. No, Clara needed to find another way.

“Do you really have no family?” Mrs. Henderson asked softly, her eyes filled with concern.

Clara sat back in her chair, sighing deeply. “I remember my father talking about a sister he had in New Mexico. But I’ve never met her, and I don’t even know if she’s still alive.”

Mrs. Henderson leaned forward. “Is there no way to find her? An old letter with an address, perhaps?”

Clara thought for a moment, her mind sifting through the distant memories. “There might be something among my things that were salvaged after the fire,” Clara said.

“Mrs. Henderson reached out and patted Clara’s hand. “It might be worth looking into, dear,” she said. “You never know what you might find. And having a family to turn to could make all the difference.”

Clara nodded slowly, considering the possibility. Yet she knew deep down it was a long shot. Her father and mother had passed almost ten years ago, and she’d never heard a word from her father’s sister.

Clara was just finishing her tea when the sound of hurried footsteps broke the quiet. Ethan came rushing through the backdoor, his hands and face covered in dirt and soil, his eyes bright with excitement.

“Mama! Mama! Guess what we did!” he exclaimed, running up to her and nearly knocking over her cup.

“What did you do?” Clara asked.

“We planted all sorts of bulbs—daffo…dillies and tulips and even some…hyacin-cups!” Ethan gushed.

Clara couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. “That sounds wonderful, Ethan,” she said. “You must have worked very hard.”

A movement caught Clara’s eye and she turned just as Mr. Henderson appeared in the doorway, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “He certainly did,” he said approvingly. “And it was a treat having a little helper.”

“Thank you, Mr. Henderson,” Clara said, genuinely grateful. “I appreciate you taking the time with him.”

“Anytime,” Mr. Henderson said.

Clara nodded, her heart swelling with gratitude. “Well, we’d better get you home and into the bath before someone mistakes you for a garden bulb.”

Ethan chuckled.

“Thank you both again,” she said. “I really appreciate it.”

“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Henderson said.

“Goodbye,” Ethan said, smiling between them.

Clara took Ethan’s hand, his small fingers curling trustingly around hers, and they made their way home.

Once inside, Clara retrieved the old hat box from the back of her closet. The box was dusty, the lid slightly askew. She carried it to the kitchen table and set it down on the table.

“What’s that?” Ethan asked curiously.

“Just some of Mama’s old things,” Clara said. “Now let’s get you clean.”

Clara set about preparing a bath for him. The cast-iron tub was placed in front of the fire, steam rising as she poured in the hot water.

As Ethan splashed happily, Clara sat down at the table, her fingers tracing the edges of the box, her mind drifting back to memories she had tried to bury but never could. She was just fifteen years old when her world changed forever. The night her parents died was a nightmare that still haunted her.

She could remember waking up to the smell of smoke, and the crackling sound of flames devouring wood. Panic had seized her heart as she stumbled out of bed, coughing and gasping for air. Her father had burst into her room, his face smeared with soot, his eyes wide with fear.

“Clara, we have to go!” he shouted, pulling her from her bed.

The house had been engulfed in flames, the heat unbearable. Her father had led her to safety, his grip firm and reassuring despite the chaos around them.

Once they were outside, he had turned back towards the inferno, determined to save her mother.

“Stay here!” he commanded, his voice strong even in the face of danger.

She watched in horror as he disappeared into the burning house. Moments later, the roof collapsed with a deafening crash, sealing her parents’ fate. Clara screamed but the sound was lost in the roar of the flames.

Neighbors came running, but it was too late. The fire had consumed everything, leaving nothing but ashes and memories. Clara had been left alone, her world shattered, her heart broken.

The hatbox in front of her now held all she had left from her parents. All that the fire had spared. Some photographs, letters, mementos of a life that had once been filled with love and warmth.

Clara sighed as she lifted the lid and began to sort through the contents. She sifted through them carefully, her fingers lingering on the portrait of her mother and father as newlyweds, their eyes shining with the promise of the future that lay before them.

Beneath the portraits and photographs, she found a stack of letters tied together with a frayed ribbon. Her breath caught as she recognized the handwriting on the top envelope—it was her father’s. She untied the ribbon and began to read through the letters, searching for any mention of his sister.

After several minutes, she found it—a letter addressed to Emma Oakley in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Clara’s hands trembled as she read the letter, her father’s words bringing a sense of connection to a past she had nearly forgotten.

Dearest Emma,

It has been too long since we last spoke. Life has taken many turns, and I find myself missing our childhood days more than ever. I hope this letter finds you well and that your life in Santa Fe is filled with happiness and prosperity.

Please write back when you can. I long to hear from you and know how you are faring.

With love,

Your brother, Paul

Clara stared at the address on the letter, her heart racing. Could it be that her aunt was still there? She had no way of knowing, but it was a lead, a glimmer of hope in an otherwise dark time.

“Mama! Look!” Ethan called from the tub, his voice pulling her from her thoughts. She looked up to see him proudly holding a bar of soap above his head, bubbles dripping down his face.

Clara smiled. “Don’t get soap in your eyes,” she warned.

“I won’t,” Ethan promised.

Clara turned back to the letter. Should she write to her aunt? Tell her about her current predicament? If she did, how long would it take for the letter to reach her? Would her aunt even reply? They were running out of time.