Prologue

Broken Bow, Wyoming

1885

“You can do this,” Leah breathed. “You’re doing so good. You’re almost done. Just one more push—”

“I can’t—” the woman above her protested, but Leah shook her head.

Leah’s brown eyes held on the other woman’s blue ones as she told her, “Just one breath. You take a big, deep breath, and then push—”

A yell filled the air, and then it happened.

Life. Squirming and crying in Leah’s hands as she pulled the baby from its mother’s womb.

Leah’s chest tightened for a brief second as the baby threw its head back, took a breath, and cried.

That cry was the best thing in this world. The sound of a healthy baby. Of yet another successful birth. Everything after that seemed to fade away. Leah’s body moved of its own accord, so familiar with what came next that she hardly needed to think about it anymore.

She made her cuts, wiped what she had to, and then set the baby gently on its mother’s chest, ignoring the tug in her own heart at the sight. “It’s a boy,” Leah breathed, and she watched as the woman turned her tired gaze to the young, squirming thing. Took in the sight of the new mother as the woman laid damp with sweat, her husband at her side.

“Thank you,” the man mouthed, and Leah gave a nod, backing toward the door.

Her hand found the knob. She turned it, then stepped out into the hallway, giving the new family its time. In a few minutes, the man, Mr. Holden, would step out and give her payment, then she’d tell him what to expect in the next few hours and how to contact her if she needed to come back and check in on the new mother.

But for the time being, Leah just stood in the hallway and caught her breath, closed her eyes, and tried to count to ten.

Today had been a hard day, harder than most, and the new mother’s brown hair and blue eyes were almost too much for her. She clenched her eyes shut and tried to steady her fluttering heart.

Sixteen years to the day since her mother had passed, and yet the wound still felt fresh.

Mrs. Holden didn’t look like her mother, but close enough. She had the same coloring, the same earnest smile. The same excitement too—Leah could still remember the eager look on her mother’s face when she told her father that finally, after seven years of trying, the baby had stuck. They would have a child come winter, a little girl if what the doctor said was true. But at the tail end of winter, the worst had happened. One bad storm and the midwife was too far out.

“She’s with the Lord now,” Leah’s father had told her, and he dropped to his knees beside Leah, his eyes on the cross above the door as he said his goodbye and thanked the Lord for the gifts He had given him.

And all the while, while her father sat on his knees, Leah stood beside him and wondered how he could say that the Lord was always listening, always patient and kind—when her mother’s one prayer, her tireless wishing for a baby girl to lay beside Leah, had been the very thing that killed her.

Leah tried to shake the memories from her head. The action was helped along by the sound of a door opening beside her, Mr. Holden with his wild brown hair and gap-toothed smile appearing.

“John. We’re naming him John, after that book in the Bible,” Mr. Holden proclaimed, face lit by the gleam of new fatherhood as he stepped out into the hallway. He fished out his coin pouch and held a few coins out to her. “You know, I gotta thank you. It’s not every town out here that’s got a midwife, much less two, and not every woman gets to have a kind birth—especially not this late in the night. But you took care of my Mary, and I appreciate that from you,” Mr. Holden said, shaking his head. “I’d offer you a ride home, but,” Mr. Holden continued, obviously noting the dark but just as soon glancing over his shoulder back at the small home where his wife and child sat. “I could send word to see if your father is near—”

“It’s alright, sir,” Leah said, pocketing her coins. “It ain’t too far, and it ain’t the first time I’ve had to walk home in the dark. It’s part of a midwife’s lot,” she proclaimed, once again parroting what her mentor, Lucy, would say.

Any hardship, any struggle, and it was part of a midwife’s lot. One didn’t go into midwifery to have an easy life. They went because the duty called to them.

“Well, thank you again for coming,” Mr. Holden said apologetically.

Leah gave a nod, then said her part, telling him to expect some bleeding, see to it that the mother and baby got their rest. “Try not to work her too hard for a month at the very least,” Leah said quietly. She’d seen far too many new mothers tanning hides and working the fields before their time. “Lucy or I will be by in the morning to see how the mother is doing and be sure that the baby is latching correctly. But until then, spend some time with your son and wife.”

“Of course,” Mr. Holden said before his departure. “Praise the Lord, not everyone gets such a healthy son or a strong wife.”

Those words echoed as the door shut behind them, stinging even when Leah knew they were never meant to.

She stared at the door, took in a deep breath, then did up the loose buttons of her mother’s favorite grey overcoat. She turned to the dark dirt road, then strode down the wooden porch steps.

The moon shone overhead as Leah made her way down the quiet street, lighting her path.

“Another safe birth,” she noted with a self-satisfied nod as she walked down the tree-canopied path. “Mrs. Lucy will be proud.”

Leah had been laboring under Mrs. Lucy’s tutelage for about three years at that point. Long enough that most midwives would be packing their things and looking to leave. Rumor had it the West had its fair share of comforts, and a woman who could birth babies? Well, she could have a kind life, given that she stumbled into the right town. Most midwives, mothers themselves, would take the opportunity to set out with their young family and build something new.

But Leah didn’t have a baby to rest in her arms or a husband waiting at home. All she had was her father, a pious man who cared little for leaving the church to which he had dedicated most of his life. Even as he sold off much of his farmland and began to wind life down to its simplest form, he was rooted in one place, and it would be hard for Leah to convince him to move much of anywhere.

And while her father might have encouraged her, telling her that the world was large and she was well-trained, Leah had little desire to leave her comfy town.

It was a rare pleasure to know all the bumps and stones along the roads you took home, to watch the trees grow around you and put down roots of your own.

Sure, there may not have been many men about town, but Leah had her friend, Esther, her papa, Mrs. Lucy, and all the sights she cared to see. Leah had her fair share of excitement in life, and she had come to the conclusion that she didn’t need any more.

But excitement had a tendency to land at the feet of those who sought it the least.

Thundering hooves hit the air and Leah clutched the small leather bag she carried a little tighter, turning her head down as she readied for the oncoming horses to pass her.

They didn’t.

Instead, two black stallions galloped up the road and stopped right at her side, a low, frantic voice asking, “Miss Leah Wilder, the midwife?”

Leah looked up at the sound of her name. Took in the sweaty, burdened expression of the man before her—Jonathan Higley. Leah had met him before in church—when she went to church. His friend, Thomas White, was riding the other horse. She didn’t get more than a breath out before Jonathan all but begged her.

“You have to come. She’s been at this for hours and—well, she’s asking for you,” Jonathan panted. “She’s pale as a sheet and me and Mrs. White, well—”

Exhaustion rung through Leah’s bones, sleep calling to her with a siren’s sweet tone, but she had but one purpose in this life. To try to stop what happened to her mother from happening again.

“Take me to her,” Leah rasped, and she got up and rode with the men into the night.

Chapter One

Hairs rose at the back of Leah’s neck when she realized where they were going.

The black mansion rose like a big and ugly thorn amongst the rugged hills and deep valleys of the Wyoming countryside. Mrs. Lucy had commented on it once, saying that it was a shame that all that dark wood and twisted metal had found its way into the hands of Luther McGraw. His home was big enough to house his family and five more, but Luther never set about filling it. Just kept the help in the thin metal shacks which lined his fields and sent any distant relatives, friends, or needy packing.

Luther McGraw had made his way in life on his own and so he presumed that everyone else should do the same. Never mind that his very existence made it hard for others to do so, when he was the main employer in town and paid men less than a day’s wage for tiling his fields and tending his cattle.

Leah’s friend, Esther, had once joked that Luther should have made his way into track laying, seeing as how he already had the devil-bred cruelty of a man about the rails, and the sharp glint of greed that all the people in them funny pamphlets got to drawing in the eyes of all them robber-barons.

Of course, that was back when Esther could joke about Luther McGraw. Long before the man had set about finding a wife and, always wanting to own the best and brightest things in town, settled his eyes upon her.

Esther claimed that Luther had argued prices with her father like she was a cow. He’d bought her, then sent her father packing with his heavy pockets.

Evidently, Esther liked being bought too, seeing as how she never left home, and rarely responded to Leah’s letters afterwards.

Leah had tried once, just once, to talk to her, and Esther’s response? “You gotta learn when to hush up.”

It seemed clear as day then what Esther meant—that Leah, with all her suffering and all her working, wasn’t worth bothering herself with.

Leah slowly learned to try not to trouble herself with Esther after that.

Until now.

“Thomas is gonna run to tell Luther that you’re here,” Jonathan grunted as he helped Leah dismount. “Just need to know how long you think this’ll last.”

“Last?” Leah said, voice breaking at the question.

“Man like Luther McGraw don’t want to see his wife all laid up and screaming,” Jonathan said with a shrug as Thomas hit the ground beside him. “He’ll be in after the maid comes—don’t wanna be bothered with the mess, see?”

“I see,” Leah said with a grimace, tilting her head down and keeping her thoughts to herself. Jonathan, however, could never do so.

“He didn’t want a midwife to begin with, was just gonna have the housekeeper handle things, but Mrs. Winters got to fussing and…”

And that was that. Leah was far from surprised at the revelation that Luther McGraw hadn’t wanted anyone else there. It was only a year ago that Esther married the man, and Leah could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen her since.

Seemed funny back then. Her best friend lived on the edge of town but the only way Leah heard from her was in letters—and even those were sparse. A part of Leah had always wondered if, finding herself married to Luther McGraw, Esther had gone and given up on her. After all, Esther was now part of a higher set.

But as Leah crossed the threshold of the double front doors and stepped into Luther’s entryway, taking in all the fine furniture and the unblemished upholstery? She had to wonder if it was really Esther’s choice to leave her behind, or if that one final letter Esther wrote Leah, the one telling her off for being such a minder and worrying over her, was really Esther’s choice.

“It’s cold,” Leah said, arms wrapping around herself even with her large bag in hand.

“Boss don’t like to waste wood,” Jonathan replied, urging Leah forward through the grey entryway and up the stairs.

Leah stayed silent at that, moving up the stairs slowly and surveying her surroundings—at least, until she heard the call in the distance.

A yell. The sound of a woman in pain. Jonathan froze ahead of her, sweat dripping down the back of his neck. But Leah? Leah moved.

She pushed past him and up the stairs, bag in hand and job in mind. This was one of the realities of midwifery: you learned how often men froze in the face of danger.

And Luther McGraw’s wife yelling out in pain? That was danger if Leah ever heard it. She moved swiftly through the hall, nearing the door before Jonathan could finally fight out of his stunned state and push ahead of her.

He caught the nod, eyes meeting Leah’s for a second, panic plain as day in them.

“You’ll take care of it, won’t you?” he asked, a desperate man if Leah had ever heard one. The bloodshot of his eyes said it all—if Esther went, well, everyone was in trouble.

But Leah, more than anyone, knew that there were no guarantees in her line of work. “Please step aside so I can get to my job, Mr. Higley,” Leah pled, and though Jonathan was obviously looking for reassurance, he moved aside, hand gripping the door hard as he pulled it open ahead of her.

***

Leah didn’t know when the last time she had prayed was. It must have been years ago, when her mother was still alive and luck seemed to favor them. It was easier to believe in God when everything went right for you. It was harder when life was looking you right in the eyes and daring you to flinch.

“Esther,” Leah breathed, swinging into motion before she even swallowed the sight before her.

Esther’s screams broke into labored breaths. Her eyes followed Leah as Leah moved to the wash basin, watching her through an unseeing gaze. “Leah?” Esther huffed out as Leah washed her hands. “Leah,” she gasped as Leah grabbed a rag from the pile beside the basin and shoved it into the water. “Is that you?” Esther asked hollowly. “Mrs. Winters, is it—”

“It’s me,” Leah said, wringing out the cloth as she struggled to even her breaths and take in the sight before her.

Esther, laying on a bed. Mrs. Winters, a church elder with a tight white bun and a pale demeanor tearing out from under a sheet, taking sight of Esther, and moving from working to praying—

And the blood.

Leah stared at it as she moved to Esther’s head, unable to look away even as Esther’s skeletal hands took her own.

She could feel the veins, could see the way that Esther’s boney knees poked up under the sheet, and yet she couldn’t make sense of any of it. Not the blood, nor the emaciation of the farmer’s daughter.

“Leah,” Esther babbled beside her. “Leah, I missed you. My mama—”

“I know,” Leah said quietly, desperate to wrench Esther’s hands from her own.

“And Luther didn’t even want to tell Papa, said I didn’t need anyone mother-henning me—”

This wasn’t happening, Leah decided as she closed her eyes and pulled from Esther’s grasp. She tried to get away, to take her mind to that other place, the place she slipped to when she was midwifing and it all made sense. The yells, the cries, the sweat and tears—where people just did as they should, and Leah’s best friend didn’t lie in a bed before her, looking a missed meal from the grave.

The distance lasted until Leah stepped around Mrs. Winters, mind numb as she lifted the sheet.

And then she saw the bruises and cuts. The black and blue, green and scarlet.

“Man like Luther McGraw don’t want to see his wife all laid up and screaming,” Jonathan Higley had said, and yet looking at Esther at that moment? Leah could have sworn that was all Luther McGraw wanted to see.

And all the while, Mrs. Winters stood beside her, praying.

Leah saw red as she tore the sheet out of her way. Bloodied and brown, it crumpled in her hand as she turned furiously to Mrs. Winters. “Get out,” Leah hissed, anger just about melting her.

Mrs. Winters looked back at her with wide, panicked eyes.

“I don’t want to hear none of your praying, because praying don’t help,” Leah spat, fed up with all this prayer when she gave God her all once and what had it gotten her?

This. Tears in her eyes and shaking hands. A scared old woman looking at her like she had spoken in the devil’s tongue.

Her friend looking half-dead and all bruised, the light gone from her eyes and a dullness to her once pretty hair. Her bones jutting, her stomach sunken, and Esther’s loud voice softened as she reached a single, clammy hand through the air.

“You come up here, Mrs. Winters. Hold my hand. Give me your strength. I know there’s a verse for this,” Esther whispered. “But I just can’t remember.”

Her words hung in the air, light and weak like all her requests had never been. Leah’s Esther was a loud, boisterous woman. Cocky and rude in all the best ways, confident and beautiful. And this?

What good will a verse do you? Leah wanted to ask.

But Esther looked at all her fury, and Leah was sure she could see all the sickness, sadness, and anger festering inside of her as Esther said, “I’m going to be alright, Leah, because I have you.”

But even as she nodded her head, Leah knew that wasn’t true.

***

Time had passed quickly, and yet slowly all at once. It felt like it took minutes, days, months, years—

And yet, hours later, there they were.

Leah, shaking with a baby in her arms, and Esther laying there before her, hardly able to keep her head up as she looked at her babe, her every breath sounding like a battle.

“You can leave, Mrs. Winters,” Esther whispered, sinking further and further into the pillow as she addressed her housekeeper. “Get some sleep,” Esther begged, and yet still the old woman hesitated, lingering by the door with such a miserable look on her face that Leah couldn’t help but feel bad.

Mrs. Winters crossed herself as she left the room, head shaking and tears bubbling in her eyes. Even she knew the truth.

“My baby,” Esther said as the door shut behind Mrs. Winters. “Let me see my baby,” she requested, and Leah obliged, heart flickering as her skin brushed Esther’s cold hands.

Leah guided the baby to rest with its head on her chest, ear to Esther’s heart like that could do something. She knew. Tears were rolling down her face and had been for hours, because she knew. Leah knew they didn’t have long, that the sight would kill her too, and yet she stayed all the same.

“He’s a strong little boy, isn’t he?” Esther asked, so much hope in her words.

Leah stayed silent.

“Small, though,” Esther wheezed, taking the babe in. “You gotta get big—daddy ain’t gonna like having such a small little boy.”

“—Esther,” Leah interrupted, and hated herself for the way Esther froze, the paler look on her face. “Esther,” Leah repeated as Esther looked to her child once more.

“—She ain’t a little boy, is she?” Esther breathed. “Luther—”

“You don’t worry about him,” Leah said, mouth dry with fear. “You just stay—you just stay here, you breathe, you take a good breath and I’ll get you up and we’ll get out of here,” Leah said, unable to stop herself from reaching for Esther, from wrapping a hand around Esther’s thin hands and trying to will the impossible from happening.

“Leah,” Esther said, eyes hollow like the spaces beneath her cheeks, lips thin and pale. “I can’t,” she said, squeezing Leah’s hand with what little that she had left. “I can’t,” she whispered.

“You got a daughter, Esther,” Leah rasped, and Esther’s face seemed to soften at that, tears pooling in her eyes.

“Leah,” Esther choked, grip suddenly tight in those final moments, her eyes hard and determined even as the haze of exhaustion began to overwhelm her. “You gotta take her.”

“I can’t, I—”

“Take her,” Esther yelled in a final frenzy of energy. “Leah, if you ever loved me, if you ever looked at me and saw a sister just as I did you—you take her. You take her now—” Esther said, her grip so hard that Leah had to stumble out of her grasp.

She tried to find the words, tried to argue, but she just couldn’t. It was all too late, too soon.

Leah’s muscles seized at the sound of heavy boots on the ground. She turned to Esther, but her friend’s eyes were closed and her breath was shallow, and—

And—

And the baby sat on Esther’s chest, eyes closed, little mouth pursed, silent and calm like the sweetest thing that Leah had ever seen—and she was gonna live with Luther McGraw. Gonna be raised by a storm of a man, one that threw open the door with thunderous entitlement behind Leah and hardly seemed to care about the fact that his willow of a wife was lying dying before him.

“Is that the baby?” Luther asked instead, voice slurred with whiskey and irritation—almost like he was annoyed with his men for thinking to come get him when his firstborn was had. “Give it to me,” he demanded, and a final choice sat before Leah. Give the man his due, or take the baby and run.

She turned to face Luther. Luther McGraw was a sharp, angular man. Always had been. Esther and Leah used to chat about him, they couldn’t resist the allure of gossip, and Luther McGraw inspired a lot of that.

Forty years old with a hooked nose and beady eyes, he was not a fortunate-looking thing. All veiny and muscular, it had long haunted Leah that Esther had ended up with such a man when she craved a soft, simple life; one with a husband who wasn’t necessarily beautiful, but was gentle to touch and kind.

Luther, with his nicotine-brown hair and his sharp grey eyes, was not that. He only further confirmed it when Leah asked, “Don’t you want to see your wife?”

Only for him to scoff, throw a single fleeting glance Esther’s way, and say, “I can see her any day. The baby, my heir,” he said, and walked to pick her up himself, at least until Leah shoved herself in the way.

“Nice clothes like that.” Black suede, Luther always wore black suede. “Wouldn’t want them to get dirty. I bet they were real expensive. I’ll clean the babe off for you,” Leah said, arms spread wide so that Luther couldn’t reach around her. “Please,” she added, and something about her concern seemed to settle him.

“Finally, someone who sees sense,” Luther scoffed, turning from his daughter without a second thought. “You’re smart, smarter than Esther. She has no appreciation for fine things,” he proclaimed.

“Doesn’t she?” Leah asked quietly, sweeping the baby up into her arms.