Prologue

Western Kentucky, February 1854

Edith shivered in the dark cabin, her shawl worn threadbare and the fire low. She scrubbed the hearthstone with a rag. Her fingers were raw, the skin cracked from the cold and constant work, but she didn’t stop. The day’s chores were far from finished, and there was no room for rest. Despite only being twelve years old, she had been keeping house for her father for as long as she could remember.

The cabin was small and worn, its rough-hewn log walls darkened by years of smoke and neglect. A single room held all it had to offer: a narrow cot pushed against one wall, a hearth that barely kept the chill at bay, and a rickety table with uneven legs. The floor was hard-packed dirt, scattered with bits of ash and mud tracked in from outside. A lone window let in a weak sliver of light that did little to brighten the gloom.

Outside, the wind whistled through the trees. She’d spent hours earlier chopping firewood with a dull axe, her arms aching with each swing, only to bring in enough to last until morning, if she fed the fire sparingly. After that, there were chickens to feed, water to haul from the well, and laundry to scrub in freezing water. And still, her father’s dinner sat untouched on the table, now cold, though she had done her best with the little they had—just some grits with a small bit of their salted pork.

The sun had set long ago. Her father had been gone all day, probably at the saloon, but he’d be back soon. He always came back eventually.

A soft knock at the door broke the silence, and Edith’s heart jumped. She wiped her hands on her apron and stood cautiously, inching toward the door. No one ever came this far into the woods. Her father had made sure of that.

Another knock, firmer this time. Swallowing hard, she peered through the tiny crack in the door. A man stood outside, his features barely visible beneath the brim of his hat.

“Miss?” His quiet voice somehow carried through the wind. “I’m from the church, passing through. Is your father home?”

“No,” Edith said softly.

The man hesitated. “We’ve organized a search for a few missing girls from town. Thought y’all might’ve seen or heard something.”

“I don’t know anything,” Edith whispered, her grip tightening on the door.

The man lingered a moment longer, his gaze softening. He studied her through the slit in the door for a moment longer before shaking his head.

“The Lord watches over us in all our trials, child. He sees your burdens, even when the world does not.”

He left something on the porch before turning and walking into the darkness. Only after his footsteps faded did Edith dare open the door. A small, weathered book lay on the step. The leather was cracked and worn from use.

She ran her fingers over the cover, her breath catching. Edith couldn’t read, but she held the book close to her chest, a strange sense of comfort settling over her. For a moment, it felt as though the weight of her endless toil and isolation might lift, just a little.

The book felt precious to her, which meant that if her father ever found it, he would destroy it or take it just to hurt her. Looking around the small cabin, she tried to think where she could hide it so that her father would never see it. Seeing a cast iron pot, she turned the pot over and stashed the book underneath.

But that feeling disappeared the moment her father stumbled through the door, his heavy boots clomping across the floor, his hunched frame shadowed by years of hard living. His once-dark hair, now streaked with gray, hung in greasy strands over a weathered face, etched deep with anger and exhaustion. Bloodshot eyes glared beneath his furrowed brow, and the stench of ale and sweat hit her before he spoke, his face twisted in drunken anger.

“This all you did?” he slurred, his bloodshot eyes scanning the room. Seeing some dirty laundry still on his bed, he reeled on her. “What’ve ya been doing all day, you worthless—”

He continued to insult her as he looked about their tiny cabin, fumbling with his coat. When he saw the plates on the table, he scoffed.

“You can’t even make a decent meal. You’re just as worthless as your ma, and she’s dead!”

Edith bit the inside of her cheek, fighting the tears that threatened to rise. She had long since learned that crying only made things worse.

Her father staggered toward her, snatching the rag from her hand and throwing it to the floor.

“Get those dishes cleaned up,” he spat. “And don’t think you’ll sleep until it’s done.”

“Yes, Pa,” she whispered, bending down to pick up the rag with trembling hands.

He swayed for a moment longer, glaring at her as if her very existence was an offense, before collapsing onto the small cot in the corner. He continued to mutter insults at her, even as he drifted to sleep.

“It’s your fault we gotta live like this. Shoulda never married your ma.”

Only once his snores filled the cabin did Edith stop washing dishes. She plopped down on her small blanket on the floor, exhaustion aching in her bones. Her eyes wandered to the book she had hidden under a pot, knowing it would be safe there from her father’s wrath.

Please, let there be more than this, she prayed silently.

Chapter One

Six Years Later

Kneeling close to the fire in the hearth, Edith stirred the small pot of oatmeal, relishing the warmth of the blaze. Content to let it cook for a little longer, she rubbed her hands together, mentally preparing to brave the cold again.

She pushed herself to her feet and headed to the door, quickly opening it and shutting it behind her. The air hit her face as soon as she stepped outside, biting at her cheeks and making her eyes water. She grabbed the water pail and dipped down in the well for some water. Edith gripped the rough wooden handle and heaved it up, her muscles protesting with each step as she made her way back to the cabin.

Inside, the fire had nearly died again. She set the pail down and threw more wood onto the small blaze, hoping it would catch quickly. There wasn’t much firewood left, and she would have to chop more before the morning was out.

Her eyes flicked to the bed in the corner, where her father lay sprawled beneath the thin quilt, snoring loudly. He had stumbled in late last night, reeking of whiskey, his boots caked in mud. Edith had stayed up to wait for him, just as she always did, knowing that if the fire wasn’t lit or the food wasn’t ready, there’d be more than just yelling to endure.

She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to keep the warmth in. She was glad for the warm oatmeal today despite having nothing to sweeten it with. There was barely anything left in the cupboards—just a few dried beans and a scrap of salted pork from last week. She would need to visit Mrs. Taylor, the grocer’s wife, later in town, if only to beg for the leftovers she sometimes gave away.

Edith spooned the porridge into bowls, hoping her father wouldn’t notice how bland it was as long as it was hot and filling.

As if on cue, he stirred in his bed, groaning as he rolled over. His eyes cracked open, bleary and bloodshot. Edith held her breath as he slowly sat up, rubbing his face with his hands.

“Edith!” he barked, his voice rough with sleep and the remnants of last night’s drink. “Where’s my breakfast?”

“I… I’ve made some porridge, Pa,” she stammered, stepping back as he lumbered toward the table.

He slumped into the chair and grabbed a bowl, his brow furrowing as he looked down. “This? This is what ya call breakfast?” he growled, throwing the spoon down with a clatter. “Ya shiftless wench! Ya expect me to live on this slop?”

Edith shrank back, her heart racing. “I’m sorry, Pa. It’s all we have left. I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” he snapped, standing up so quickly that the chair scraped into the dirt floor. “Ya’ll fix this?” He waved a hand at the meager spread on the table, his face twisting in disgust. “Ya haven’t done a decent thing in your life. Not since your ma died and left ya with me.”

Her throat tightened, but she held her tongue. There was nothing she could say to him, not when he was like this. Not ever.

Her father shook his head, his gaze cold as he picked up the spoon and tried a scoop of oatmeal, some of it dripping down his chin. He made a face and spat it out on the floor. “I’m headin’ into town,” he muttered. “I don’t want to see your face if this place ain’t spotless.”

Without another word, he grabbed his coat and stormed out, the door slamming behind him. Edith stood frozen for a moment, her hands trembling at her sides. She had long since grown used to his outbursts, but it didn’t make them any easier to bear.

Her eighteenth birthday had started like any other day, though a part of her had clung to the hope that it might be different—perhaps a kind word, maybe even a small smile. But she should have known better. Birthdays meant nothing to her father, not hers anyway.

“Happy birthday, Edith,” she whispered to herself as she sat down at the table with her bowl of porridge. The words felt hollow, even in the silence of the cabin. There was no one to hear them.

After she had eaten, cleaned, and put away the dishes, she grabbed the water pail and headed out into the cold again.

The sky was still pale, the sun just a hint of gold above the treetops, casting long shadows on the ground. Edith liked this time of day before the world fully awoke. The quiet made the endless work easier to bear.

After she set the full pail down near the kitchen, she stepped back outside, the worn axe leaning against the side of the cabin catching her eye. The woodpile was nearly gone, just a few logs left from last week’s chopping.

Chopping wood had never gotten easy for her, but there was no one else to do it. Edith had been doing it since she was strong enough to lift the axe, her father preferring the warmth of the saloon to the effort of keeping their home livable.

She raised the axe, swinging it down with all the strength she could muster. The blade sunk into the log with a dull thud, splitting it unevenly. Her arms already burned with the effort, but she reset the axe and swung again, her breath coming in hard puffs.

By the time the sun was fully above the horizon, she had chopped enough wood to last through the next few days. Her arms shook as she stacked the logs by the door, so she headed inside to rest for a moment. Yet, the cabin felt stifling, even in the cold air, her father’s anger hanging over her like a cloud.

Needing to escape, she wiped her hands on her apron and entered the forest, toward the only place that brought her any peace. The path was familiar, worn by her many walks through the trees, and it wasn’t long before she reached her favorite spot—a large oak tree at the edge of the clearing. The branches swayed gently in the breeze, the only sound besides the crunch of snow beneath her boots.

Edith sat on the cold ground, leaning back against the rough bark. She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and reached into her pocket, pulling out the small, worn Bible she had carried for years. She ran her fingers over the leather cover, its edges frayed and weathered from years of use.

She couldn’t read the words inside, but the Bible brought her comfort nonetheless. It was a reminder that somewhere, someone cared, even if she had never met them. The stranger who had left it on her porch all those years ago had given her something she couldn’t quite name—a sliver of hope, perhaps.

The wind whispered through the branches, and Edith closed her eyes, letting herself imagine for a moment that her life was different. That she was free of her father’s cruelty, free to live her own life, to make her own choices.

But those were just dreams. Reality was harder. Colder.

With a sigh, she tucked the Bible back into her pocket and stood, brushing the snow from her skirts. She couldn’t afford to waste too much time out here—there was laundry to do, more firewood to bring in, and she still needed to visit Mrs. Taylor to ask about supplies.

Once back at the cabin, she gathered up the laundry, her father’s clothes reeking of alcohol and unwashed skin. Picking up a handkerchief her father had thrown on the dresser, she noticed a slip of paper underneath the edge of the dresser.

It was a newspaper clipping, yellowed and worn, with a small drawing of a young woman in the corner. The headline was bold, but the words were a mystery to Edith. She turned the paper over, hoping for some clue as to its meaning, but there was nothing.

She tucked the clipping back under the dresser, a slight tremor running through her as she straightened up. Whatever it was, she didn’t want her father to find it. He would blame her for it, as he did for everything else.

By the time night fell, the cabin was clean, the hearth swept, and the meager dinner prepared. Edith sat at the table, mending one of her father’s shirts, staring into the fire as the shadows danced on the walls. Her father would be back soon. She could already feel the tension creeping back into her shoulders, the same heaviness that came with his presence.

When the door finally banged open, Edith didn’t flinch, though her heart leaped in her chest. Her father’s heavy boots clomped across the floor, leaving streaks of mud in their wake. The smell of whiskey and sweat filled the cabin as he slammed the door behind him, the impact rattling the thin walls.

“Did you clean this place like I said?” he barked, his voice thick with drink.

“Yes, Pa,” Edith replied, keeping her head down as she wiped her hands on her apron.

“Get your coat,” he muttered, not even looking at her.

Edith blinked, startled. “What?”

“I said, get your coat,” he repeated, his voice growing louder. “We’re going to town.”

Her stomach dropped. She hadn’t expected this. “Why? It’s late, Pa. I—”

“Ya know better than to question me,” he growled, struggling to sit up. “Get your coat before I have ya get a switch. Now.”

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Edith nodded and hurried to fetch her worn shawl from the hook by the door. The evening was darkening quickly, and the air had grown colder. Why would he want to go back into town at this hour, when clearly he had already drunkenly stumbled back home?

Her hands trembled as she pulled the shawl around her shoulders and tied it under her chin. She knew better than to ask too many questions when he was in this kind of mood. His anger was a constant shadow, always ready to erupt, and she had learned long ago how to tread carefully around it.

As soon as her coat was secured, her father grabbed her arm roughly and dragged her toward the door. Edith bit her lip, trying to stifle a gasp at the force of his grip. His hand was calloused and harsh, the fingers digging into her skin as he pulled her outside. The freezing night air stung her face as they stepped onto the porch, and her boots crunched against the thin layer of snow on the ground.

“Keep up,” he muttered, yanking her forward as they began the long walk toward town.

The road was dark and deserted, the only light coming from the faint moon above. Edith stumbled to keep pace with him, her breath visible in the cold as they trudged down the narrow path. She had no idea why they were going to town, but fear gnawed at her stomach, twisting it into tight knots. Her father’s temper was unpredictable, and the thought of where this night might lead made her feel sick.

They walked in silence for what felt like an eternity, Edith’s heart pounding in her chest with each step. Her father’s grip never loosened, his fingers a constant reminder of her powerlessness. The journey felt endless as her mind raced with possibilities—none of them good.

When they finally reached the edge of town, Edith’s legs ached, and her breath came in shallow gasps. Her father dragged her down the main street, continuing to hurl insults as they passed the shuttered shops and darkened houses until they reached the saloon. The warm glow of lantern light spilled out onto the street, accompanied by the raucous laughter and shouting of the men inside.

The heavy, choking stench of alcohol, tobacco, and sweat-filled bodies hit her like a wave, and the noise blurred into a mindless roar in her ears. Edith’s heart raced in her chest, and she fought the urge to turn and run, though she didn’t know where she’d go. She wasn’t supposed to be here—she didn’t belong here.

Everything felt disjointed, unreal, like she was floating somewhere outside her body. The heat, the smell, the eyes on her—it all made her dizzy. Her father’s grip on her arm was painfully tight, his fingers digging into her skin, but she barely registered it. Her eyes darted around the room, catching only flashes of dirty tables, men hunched over their drinks, leering faces. She couldn’t focus on anything. The voices, the laughter—they felt distant, garbled, like she was underwater.

She tried to keep her breathing steady, tried to stay upright as her father dragged her through the room, but it felt like the floor was slipping out from under her feet. Everything was spinning. There were too many sounds, too many faces. She just wanted to shrink away and disappear.

She wasn’t sure where they were going or what was happening. She caught snippets of her father’s loud voice as he barked at the men seated at a table. There was the sound of coins clinking and cards slapping down, but none of it made sense to her. None of it felt real.

Then she heard a laugh—deep and unsettling—and her father’s voice cut through the haze in her mind. She blinked, suddenly aware of the harsh grip still holding her in place. Her vision cleared just enough to see the man at the table, bearded and scarred, grinning at her.

“My girl here,” her father shouted, his voice thick with something dark. “Eighteen today, and ripe for the taking.”

Everything in Edith froze. The words slammed into her like a fist, knocking the breath from her lungs. She felt the blood drain from her face, her limbs going cold as her father’s words settled over her, suffocating her. He wasn’t just joking or boasting. He was serious. He was trying to sell her like she was no more than cattle.

Her vision blurred again, but this time from the tears that filled her eyes. Her father’s grip tightened as the men laughed, as they looked her over with casual interest, as if she was nothing more than a thing to be bought and used.

She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move. Her legs trembled, her body going numb, but her mind was racing. No, this couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be real.

A low murmur of voices and the shuffling of cards became a muted hum in the background. All she could hear, all she could think about, was the fact that her father had put her up as the wager.

“Pa, no, please—” she tried to plead, but her voice was barely a whisper.

“Shut your mouth,” her father hissed, shaking her roughly. “Yer gon do as I say.”

She flinched, terror welling up inside her. She wanted to scream, wanted to run, but her feet were glued to the floor. Her whole body felt paralyzed, except for the rapid thumping of her heart against her chest. How could he do this to her? She had always known he was cruel, but this? This was beyond what she could have imagined.

And then, through the blur of tears and fear, she felt someone watching her. Slowly, she turned her head and saw him—a tall man standing by the bar, his dark eyes fixed on her. His face was partially hidden in the shadow, but there was something about him—something different from the other men in the room, something that made him stand out.

For a moment, their eyes met. His gaze held hers, steady and unreadable, but it raised the hairs on her neck. The noise around her, the laughter, the shouts seemed to fade away. In that brief second, it was just her and the stranger’s gaze, locked together in a way that made her chest tighten.

And then, just as quickly, the moment was gone.