Prologue

Springfield, Illinois, 1890

Agnes Whitaker walked the dirt path from the church to her father’s house, careful of her footing on the uneven terrain. The roads had fallen into a terrible state—a sign, she thought, of deeper decay. This town wasn’t what it had been, that was for sure. Grit scuffed beneath her shoes.

She kept her head held high, chestnut curls brushing her neat collar. Her hair had always been her pride—her one vanity, though lately, she’d spotted a few silver strands that troubled her more than she liked to admit. She tried not to care, but lately, she’d felt every one of her thirty years pressing down on her. Other women her age had husbands, children, and lives full of company and obligation. She had no one. Not since her father passed.

A fine dust clung to the shine on her shoes and billowed in the swish of her skirts. She clutched a well-worn leather-bound book—her father’s Bible—against her chest like a shield.

A solemn expression deepened into a frown as she passed deserted houses with peeling paint and darkened windows. They looked hollow, abandoned. The sight left her with a chill. She picked up her pace, eyes on the road ahead, thoughts circling the events of the morning.

It was Sunday, and the church service had been grim. The congregation had dwindled to a scatter of stooped backs and gray heads. These were the ones left behind—the ones who couldn’t leave… or wouldn’t. Agnes had lived here her whole life, and despite everything, she understood that reluctance. But the new railroad had gutted Springfield. It drew young men away and drained businesses dry.

Anyone with strength or ambition had already gone.

Even the service itself felt hollow. A visiting priest, borrowed from a larger parish, had delivered a disinterested sermon about perseverance. He barely looked up from the pulpit and left as soon as the final hymn ended.

Agnes walked with a heavy heart. She ran her fingertips along the softened spine of her father’s Bible. The pages brimmed with his handwriting, notes, and thoughts scribbled in the margins. Reading it sometimes felt like speaking with him again. But he’d been gone nearly three months, taken by a swift illness that had left her reeling.

Her father’s absence lay heavy on her chest. It was always with her, but in moments of loneliness, distress, or desolation—times she would have once turned to her father for solace or advice—it was physical. Sharp, real, aching in the chest like a broken bone.

This morning, it was heavy indeed. She hadn’t known, before these last months, that grief could be so all-consuming. Sometimes, she thought she might almost cry out with the pain of it. He had been gone three months almost to the day, taken by a sudden illness that left her breathless and stunned in its swiftness.

As she walked, the Missouri heat prickled against her skin. The day was warming up to be a scorcher. She took a handkerchief to mop delicately at her brow and surreptitiously wiped away a single tear.

The railroad had changed everything—but not all for the worse. Some saw progress in the way Springfield was growing. The new depot brought traffic and trade, and with it came opportunity. Storefronts near the station had sprung up with new paint and larger displays, and there were whispers of telegraph wires soon to connect them with Chicago. Springfield wasn’t dying. It was evolving.

But not everyone liked what the town was becoming. Some families had packed up and headed further west, longing for quiet places untouched by industry. Agnes didn’t blame them. She, too, sometimes missed the slower pace of what Springfield once was—a place where you knew every face in church, where the blacksmith tipped his hat and called you by name.

The railroad crews had brought a different rhythm. Most were decent men, rough around the edges but hardworking and focused. They came in waves, following the steel rails across the continent. Few stayed long. They had no families here, no homes to call their own. Just work, bedrolls, and the next destination.

But there were always a few men who drank too early and too often, who loitered on their days off and tested the patience of any lawman nearby. It was a handful like that who lounged near the edge of the rail camp now, shirt sleeves rolled and laughter loud.

Agnes kept her eyes down as she passed. She had learned, over the past months, that meeting a man’s gaze could be mistaken for an invitation. Best to pass by quietly and unnoticed.

“Hey, preacher’s girl,” one of them called out as she scurried by, wishing herself invisible. His voice was thick and slurring with liquor even so early in the day. “Won’t you come to say a prayer for me, sweetheart?”

A ripple of laughter followed then, sharp and jeering. They were like a pack of dogs. She ignored them and kept walking.

“I hear she’s too good to talk to the likes of us.”

“Bet she’s not so righteous behind closed doors.”

A shudder ran down her spine, but she did not falter. To acknowledge them would only encourage them, and she had no strength for it, not today.

Then, suddenly, a hand seized her wrist from behind her.

The world narrowed. Panic surged through her like lightning.

She gasped, the Bible slipping from her grasp as she was yanked backward. The man was close, his breath sour against her cheek. She struggled, but he was far stronger than she was, and she couldn’t break free of his iron grip. The others jeered and hollered, egging him on. They were like dogs—dangerous when riled, especially in a group.

“You act all high and mighty.” She could hear the sneer in his voice as he pressed his face close to her ear. “But I bet you…”

They were nearly cheek to cheek, and panic rose in Agnes’s throat. She choked on it. She couldn’t even scream.

She didn’t hear the rest. She drove her elbow back, striking his ribs with all the strength she could muster. He grunted in surprise, his grip loosening just enough for her to free herself. As she pulled away, he reached out and grabbed her sleeve. The delicate fabric ripped, leaving him holding a piece of lace and Agnes free to run.

She didn’t stop to think about it. She didn’t look behind her. She crouched down as fast as lightning to retrieve her father’s Bible. There was no way in heaven she would leave that behind for them to mock over and destroy. Then, she just ran.

She heard them laughing behind her, shouting things she only half heard and did not want to understand. Her heart thundered in her ears, and her vision blurred. Colors danced before her eyes. The world blurred and bulged around her, and she thought she might faint clean away. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and her chest ached with effort. Her dress was torn, the fabric hanging loose around her arm where his rough hands had grabbed her.

When she reached the house, she nearly collapsed, her whole weight pressed against the door as she fumbled with the latch. It was stiff and had never worked well, always sticking. Before, her father would have oiled it or taken it apart to clean the simple mechanism inside. But now that he was gone, there was no one to fix it, so it had grown worse until it took all her strength to turn the key. Finally, it turned. Her hands trembled as she pressed her back against the wood, her breath shuddering.

She was alone.

For the first time since his death, the reality of that fact pressed down on her. There was no one to protect her or stand between her and the world. She slid to the rug and curled inward, forehead to her knees. A silent sob trembled through her. Her whole body shook.

A flicker of movement caught her eye. Her reflection in the window.

A girl stared back. Wild-eyed. Her hair had fallen from its pins, her sleeve torn, her face streaked with dirt and tears. Her cheeks flushed, not from shame over what had happened. She knew she had done nothing wrong. But because she’d been powerless to stop it. Because there was no one left to shield her. Because she didn’t know what came next.

Eventually, her breathing slowed. Her throat ached. Her limbs trembled, but she unfolded herself and stood.

She went to the stove and lit the flame with clumsy fingers, setting water to boil for tea. It was something to do with her hands. Something to bring normalcy back into a day that had spun sideways.

While the kettle warmed, she rinsed her face and scrubbed her hands, biting back a fresh wave of emotion. She changed into a clean dress—one of her plainer ones—and brushed her hair smooth, pinning it back as best she could. It didn’t matter how small the act was; she needed to feel in control of something. Anything.

She poured the tea into a mug, sat at the kitchen table, and stared out the window. The streets outside had gone quiet. No one had followed her. The danger had passed—for now.

But something inside her had shifted.

She couldn’t live like this. Couldn’t go on waiting for grief to dull or for Springfield to somehow become safer again. Nothing about this town felt like home anymore. Without her father, the walls of the house echoed. Empty and far too quiet.

She took a slow sip of the tea, her hands finally steadying.

And that’s when the memory surfaced—unbidden but clear.

A few weeks earlier, she’d been standing in line at the bank when she overheard Mrs. O’Connell and her youngest daughter, Susanne, chattering a few paces ahead. Gossiping, really. They always did.

“Some desperate men,” Susanne had said, in that knowing tone of hers, “are still sending off for mail-order brides. Out west, of all places! Can you imagine a worse fate?”

Susanne, not yet twenty, was engaged to the man who owned the general store. A suitable match, everyone agreed. A comfortable life ahead. Agnes hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but something about the remark had stuck in her mind. She couldn’t shake it.

Out west.

It sounded like madness to Susanne. And why wouldn’t it? The girl had probably never dirtied her hands, let alone gone without a hot meal. But Agnes had always longed for space, for something solid and purposeful. The thought of wide skies and hard work didn’t scare her—it called to her.

She’d dismissed it, of course. A romantic notion at best. After all, she was thirty, and any man placing an ad was likely looking for someone younger, someone softer, someone with less history. Still, the idea had nested in the back of her mind. Quiet. Persistent.

And today, it stirred again.

She glanced toward the small table by the door. Her father’s Bible still sat there, the leather worn smooth from years of use. She reached for it out of habit—not for prayer, exactly, but for his words. His presence. It was the only piece of him she had left.

Flipping through the familiar pages, she let them fall open where they would. He’d written in the margins in a steady, looping hand. Small notes, thoughts, reflections.

Her eyes landed on one passage he’d marked: It is not what we say, but what we do, that matters.

Her breath caught. It was like hearing his voice again, low and steady, nudging her toward something braver.

She stared at the quote for a long moment.

For months, she had waited—letting grief weigh her down, letting fear fence her in. But no one was coming to fix her life for her. Words wouldn’t do it. Tears wouldn’t do it. Only action would.

She set the book down and stood again. The cup of tea was still warm in her hand.

This morning had made one thing clear: She could not stay here. Not if she wanted a future. Not if she wanted to feel safe, or whole, or anything close to free.

She didn’t yet know where she was going.

But she knew she couldn’t stay.

Chapter One

Cheyenne, Wyoming, 1890

Jimmy McCord wiped the sweat from his brow and straightened up from his work, stretching out the stiffness in his back with his hands on his hips. The late afternoon sun burned low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the sprawling land before him.

Jimmy was no stranger to hard work, but today, it had been more grueling than most. A storm had rolled through the night before, and it had been a terror. In its wake, it left fences to mend and cattle to round up. It had taken a good part of the day to wrangle those young heifers back into their paddock, and one bull was still on the loose, though the hands had it cornered by the barn.

Jimmy’s leg ached something fierce, but he ignored it. Pain was part of life. Best not to dwell on it.

“You’re limping worse today,” Tom remarked, his voice casual and quiet but laced with concern. He leaned against the corral fence, arms crossed, and watched Jimmy move with an appraising eye. “Didn’t take it easy like I told you, did you?”

Tom Reynolds was tall and well-built, with a kind face that was lined from long hours of working outdoors in all weather. He’d known Jimmy most of his life, and they’d worked side by side for many years. Tom had started out as a ranch hand, working for Jimmy at first. But he was smart and hardworking. A self-made man, before long, he’d saved enough to buy a patch of land of his own next to Jimmy’s. He’d built a neat little house. It wasn’t much, but it was a start, and Jimmy didn’t doubt it would thrive.

Tom still helped Jimmy out most days. They worked their fields together more often than not. They liked each other’s company, which was one thing that sure beat slogging all alone in the heat of the day. But since Jimmy had injured his leg, he depended on Tom more and more. He was his right-hand man. He was a loyal friend—grateful, perhaps, for the start Jimmy had once given him.

Jimmy gave him a wry look. “Since when do ranchers get to take it easy?”

Tom snorted but didn’t argue. Instead, he sighed, looked away across the fields toward the rolling horizon, and rubbed the back of his neck. Jimmy knew that look well enough by now. Something was weighing on Tom’s mind; it was written all over his face.

“Mary isn’t expecting this month either,” Tom admitted after a long pause. “She tried not to let on, but I could see it in her face. She wants a baby so bad, Jimmy. And I do, too. Feels like we’re being punished.”

Jimmy set his hands on his hips and looked out over the ranch. He understood Tom’s pain, even if his own longings ran in a different direction. There was nothing harder, he knew, than yearning for something life kept withholding.

“It ain’t punishment,” he said, voice steady, expression softening. “Some things just take time. Everything has its season, after all.”

Tom gave him a weak smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes, which looked more melancholy than ever. “Yeah, well… time’s starting to feel like the enemy.”

The two men fell into silence, the sounds of the ranch filling the silence. The distant bawling of cattle, the rhythmic creak of the windmill turning, and the raised voices of ranch hands hollering to each other as they worked. After a moment, Jimmy clapped Tom on the shoulder and gestured toward the house. “Come on. We’ve done enough work for today. Let’s go have a drink and some well-earned rest.”

Jimmy wouldn’t admit it, perhaps not even to himself, but his leg was giving him heck, and he needed to get off his feet.

Tom nodded, and something about the look he gave Jimmy showed him that he understood, perhaps a little better than Jimmy would have liked.

Tom set down the hammer in his toolbox and set about gathering up the wire and equipment that was strewn about the fence line. “This is secure enough for now,” he said, testing the wire with a wobble. “I’ll come out again tomorrow and reinforce it. It’ll hold well enough till then. That’s if we don’t get another storm, that is.”

They both looked up at the sky, which was clear and blue, with not a cloud to be seen.

Jimmy shouldered the sack of nails and the roll of wire while Tom hefted the tools. They started downhill toward the house, their boots kicking up dust as they walked. It was an ordinary evening after a hard day’s work.

Jimmy was sore and thirsty and could almost taste the beer he’d left cooling in the shaded trough out back.

Contentment, or something close to it, descended with the still of the evening. If not for the persistent ache in his leg or the memories that crept in when the world got too quiet, Jimmy might’ve called himself something close to happiness. Not quite, but not miserable either. And perhaps that was all he could hope for after all.

But as they reached the front porch, they both froze.

A cry drifted through the air. Soft. Thin. High-pitched.

Jimmy’s gut clenched. He traded a glance with Tom before stepping forward, his pulse picking up as he scanned the porch. And then he saw it.

A basket sat just beside the door. All Jimmy could see from where he stood was a blanket, but as he watched, he saw the blanket move. Beneath the sky-blue wool, a tiny body wriggled. They both stood dumbfounded, neither speaking. Then the cry came again, thin and desperate.

Jimmy crouched down, unsure what to do but wanting to help the poor little mite. A note was pinned to the blanket.

Tom bent down and plucked it up with hands that trembled just a little. He read it out loud, his voice rough with unspoken emotion. “Her name is Charlotte. Please take care of her.”

Jimmy felt as though the ground had been yanked out from under him. He swallowed hard, looking down at the tiny girl swaddled in the basket. She was red-faced and squalling, her face bunched up like a little old man. Her little fists waved helplessly.

“Who’d leave a baby out here?” Tom muttered. “It doesn’t make sense. An animal could’ve gotten her. We might have been hours longer.”

Jimmy shook his head. “Don’t matter who right now. Don’t matter why. We can figure that out later. We got to take care of her. Crying like that, maybe there’s something wrong with the little thing. What ails you, precious?”

Tom lifted the basket, holding it with surprising gentleness for a man with such rough hands. The cries didn’t stop at once, but they immediately calmed, and before long, she was gazing up at Tom with placid, wide-open eyes. “We need to take her into town,” Tom said over his shoulder to Jimmy. “Maybe Liam can help us make sense of this little mystery. Or failing that, perhaps the orphanage can take her in.”

Jimmy nodded. “Let’s go right now. Orphanage first. It’s on the way.”

As he moved toward the stable to hitch his horse to the wagon, his leg twinged something terrible, but he didn’t let on. There’d be time enough to rest later, no doubt.

They made their way through peaceful streets. The workday was over, and everyone was heading home or had already arrived. A few familiar faces gathered on the porch outside the tavern. They tipped their hats and said howdy as they passed. A few horses were hitched outside the blacksmith, and they could hear the familiar clash of hot iron being hammered.

The sheriff’s office was quiet when they arrived. The warm glow of the lantern cast flickering shadows on the wooden walls. Liam Baxter looked up from his desk as they walked in. He met them with a friendly smile and a cheery how-do, but when he saw the serious expressions etched on their faces, his gaze immediately fell on the basket in Tom’s arms.

“What in the—” Liam pushed back his chair and stood, coming around the desk to meet them and peer inside the basket. “Is that a baby?”

“Sure isn’t a kitty cat. We found her on Jimmy’s porch,” Tom said grimly. “Note says her name’s Charlotte. But it didn’t say anything else.”

Liam took the note and read it. He read it again, stroking his stubble with a rasping sound as his frown deepened. “No sign of who left her?”

Jimmy shook his head. “Nothing. Just the basket and the note. There was no one at the house to see. We can ask the ranch hands, but we were all out in the fields mending fences for the whole day. No one had any reason to be by the house at all.”

Liam exhaled a deep sigh, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I can ask around, too. See if anyone in town saw anything strange. Knows anyone who might be missing a baby.

The men stood in silence a moment, Charlotte’s soft snuffling the only sound in the room.

“Well, one thing’s certain—she can’t stay here,” Liam added.

Tom nodded. “We tried the orphanage already. The matron says they’re full and might not have space for months.”

Liam grunted. “I’m not surprised. They’re stretched thin these days.”

Tom shifted his weight, looking down at the sleeping baby in his arms. “I was thinking… maybe Jimmy ought to keep her.”

Jimmy’s head snapped up. “What?”