Prologue

Atchison, Kansas

1870

Amy wasn’t hungry anymore.

She had passed the point of hunger and entered a new state, one of weakness and cold. Her hands trembled. Her mind was hazy, her thoughts aimless.

The small fire at the hearth burned low, in need of fresh kindling. The dull red embers hardly illuminated the interior of the line shack where she had sought shelter a few days before. Sparse and tiny, the shack had nevertheless held a few provisions and other supplies. Those were all gone now, all used up. If it had been only her sheltering there in that crude space, she might have been able to stretch the scraps of food a little further, pile more of the threadbare blankets onto herself.

But she wasn’t alone.

As if thinking about them was enough to get their attention, the children stirred.

“Ma,” Ben mumbled. “Ma, I’m so hungry. Are you sure there’s nothing left?”

“Nothing right now, sweet one. I’ll find us more food in a short while.” Amy shifted closer to her thirteen-year-old stepson and stroked her hand over the unruly tumble of black curls that spilled in front of his eyes.

Though the boy was the blood of her late husband and his widow before her, she had raised him and thought of him as her own.

She felt the same for the girl.

Amy looked to her stepdaughter, a few years younger than the boy. Emma had stopped her moving and lay curled up underneath the two blankets Amy had given her—sacrificing her own to ensure the smallest person in the group was as comfortable as possible. “Go to sleep like Emma, Ben. You can’t be hungry when you’re asleep.”

“But I can’t fall asleep ‘cause I’m so hungry.” His tone took on a whine, that of a much younger child. Hardship and lack of basic necessities made him smaller and more timid than he should have been.

Amy’s heart squeezed so tight she could barely breathe. She was as lost as she had ever been. She understood her son, understood his problem. She could only show the right amount of compassion instead of commiserating equally, because she was meant to be competent and capable. She had to act properly and be someone he could rely upon and believe in. If he, or Emma, knew she was every bit as frightened and lost…

“Just give it a try,” Amy said, trying to sound soothing. “Lay down now. Conserve your energy.”

Ben gave her a look that was almost too perceptive, almost too close to seeing the truth. He blinked and he was only a tired, hungry child once more. He lay down and pulled his blanket up over his head. His shoulders shuddered, his breaths uneven. Amy rubbed his back through the blanket, then rose and took a few paces back, to the middle of the shack’s floor. She tried to think, to look at the situation as her late husband would have. Thomas had a mind like the Bible, an answer upon every page.

She had three mouths to feed, and no food. There had been some dried fruit and jerky in the cupboards, which hadn’t lasted the first night. Earlier, she had gone out to forage, and the berries and nuts she found were gone in a blink. The fire was about to die. They’d had nothing to drink since the previous day, when she was able to fill her canteen from a trickling stream she wasn’t certain she could find again. The air was cold, the early autumn weather tending toward bitter.

What problem did she fix first?

She struggled to think. Since fleeing with the children in the middle of the night, she’d only eaten some of the foraged berries. She couldn’t solve problems if she didn’t have fuel for her mind and body. She was going to burn out, like the fire.

What to eat?

She went back to the cupboards and felt around inside them, yet another time, as if she could possibly have missed more jerky or fruit in the shallow depths. Her fingers touched only dust. She put her knuckles to her mouth and bit until she tasted her own blood. Closing her eyes, she pictured the forest floor with round mushrooms sprouting all about. Others grew on fallen logs, and some still on living trunks. Brown, white, orange.

Food. Poison. She didn’t know how to tell the difference.

A sudden gust of wind rattled the shack and the door burst inward. The swirling air poured in, carrying bits of leaf and splintered sticks and all the unpleasantness of the outside environment. Ben’s blanket was dislodged and he struggled, grappling for it. “Ma!” he cried, his face pale and weak.

“Hush!” Amy gasped, the breath knocked from her by the power of the cold. She rushed toward the door to shut it, or tried to rush. Her legs almost seemed numb from how they refused to work properly. She staggered up to the door and grabbed it. The wind kept flooding in, frustrating her efforts.

Grunting, she pushed her full weight against the door and at last managed to get it to budge. One excruciating shove at a time, each feeling like it used up the last of her strength before she somehow managed to find more, she eventually got it shut again.

Then, she dropped to her knees. She hadn’t the energy to even turn her head and look at the children. She pictured them in her mind instead, their sweet eyes and trusting, innocent faces. Ben hadn’t been able to get up. Emma hadn’t reacted at all, deep in a slumber that was sometimes frighteningly like death.

Amy had barely been able to shut a door.

The weight of understanding pressed down upon her, and she wished that she was a child, that there was someone else to take this burden away from her.

She shuffled on her knees over to the fire, now little more than glowing sparks amidst the dead ash. Wrapping an arm around either child, she lay her head on the cold hard ground and began to pray.

She prayed because there was someone she could lean upon, who could give her the gentle, trusting innocence of a child, and that was God. Her lips moved without sound.

Let someone find us here before it’s too late. If it’s my time, then at least let the children be saved. They don’t deserve to pay for my mistake in bringing us here.

“Ma?” Ben sounded like he was crying.

“Hush,” Amy said again, and held both children as close to her as she could, and waited for what would come.

Maybe she fell asleep, or lost consciousness. The next thing she knew, the door to the shack had banged open again. She only opened her eyes, didn’t lift her head. She couldn’t get up.

Something filled the doorway, a hulking black shape against the dusk sky. At first, she thought it was a bear standing on its hind legs. Then, it moved, and she saw that it moved like a person, not an animal.

The fire was little more than a spark, but her vision rapidly adjusted to the dark. The person was an enormous man with a thick dark beard and a wild head of hair. He stepped into the cabin, standing over Amy and the children. His eyes glittered darkly.

“Please don’t hurt us.” Her tongue was thick in her mouth, the words coming out slow and blurry. Was this his shack? Would he force them to leave? She couldn’t. She couldn’t move anymore.

“Quiet.” His voice was a growl from deep, deep in his throat. The single word almost wasn’t a word at all. The man leaned from side to side, looking at the bundled children beside her. “Ain’t goin’ to hurt you.”

She barely understood. Her head was sinking back toward the floor, the world growing darker around her.

The man set an enormous, heavy hand upon her shoulder, a hand radiating heat that singed her through her clothes. “Goin’ to be all right now,” he rumbled.

“Thank God,” she said, or thought she said.

Amy slipped back into the dark. The last thing she knew was the feel of his hand, warmer even than the fire had been.

Chapter One

Kansas City

Three days before

The bedroom door was ajar. Amy slowed as she walked down the hall with a stack of folded laundry in her arms. She knew she shouldn’t.

The curiosity was too great not to.

She crept forward a few paces, seeing the trunk at the foot of the bed, then the bed itself, which had a large suitcase laying open upon it. The suitcase was full of clothes and other personal belongings.

A tall, thin man stepped into view, carrying a notebook and other writing materials. His cropped gray hair and trimmed mustache and beard were marks of the pride he took in his appearance. He never wore any shirt with a snag, or sock with a hole. Amy knew that because she was the one who did his laundry, who secretly repaired and darned his garments to save the household some money. Anything that didn’t meet his standards was tossed outside and burned.

“To keep the beggars from getting their grubby hands on it,” he always said when questioned, and even when not.

Amy could still remember the sting of the slap he gave her on the one and only occasion she had challenged his behavior. It was better not to, to focus on silence and survival.

But when he turned his gaunt body around and saw her standing there watching him, she knew that she hadn’t any choice. She had to say something.

“Are you goin’ on a trip, Boyd?” She tried to sound neutral and polite.

Boyd’s lip curled in a sneer. She was used to that. That was always how he looked at her, beginning on the day they’d first met, when she’d married his son, Thomas. However, this time, there was a little extra venom in the glare.

“I’m packing,” Boyd said, and grabbed the door to pull it fully open. His hand was as wrinkled and knobby as a bird’s foot, the nails like curved talons. “As you should be. We leave in two days’ time, as I told you before.”

“I had hoped you would change your mind.” She edged into the room and set the laundry down.

Boyd tossed aside the notebook and writing supplies he had been holding and snatched at her wrist. Belying his age, his grip was fierce, grinding her bones together. “I’m not changin’ my mind. We’re headed west, woman. You either pack up or you’ll be journeyin’ with nothin’ but the dress you wear.”

Amy swallowed hard. Over the past couple months, Boyd had been talking about heading West to seek better business opportunities. Only last week, he had sat down at the dinner table and said he found a guide to take them and a few other families along the trail.

“You know you need to come with me, Amy. I need a woman to cook and clean for me on the journey.” He abruptly released her hand and turned away to resume his packing. “When I’m gone, won’t be any more payments on this place. You’d have to move anyway. Might as well move on with me.”

“What about the children, Boyd?” She swallowed hard.

Heading West was not what she was opposed to. She’d had a few friends who joined wagon trains and went off to California and Oregon. Everyone was doing it, seeking land, business, and even riches. Some, she’d heard, even found what they went looking for. She even considered the idea that there might be something like happiness out there for her, a source of joy that she could mine like the prospectors did with gold.

What kept her from agreeing was the children.

“We’ve done gone through this.” He sounded impatient as he slammed down the lid of the suitcase. “They won’t be comin’ with us.”

Her hands knotted together in front of her. “They’re much too young to be left alone.”

“Ben is almost a man now. It’s about time that he acts like it.” Boyd did up the latch on the suitcase and swung it down onto the floor with a heavy thud. “He’s spoiled and weak now. This will force him to grow up, give him a shot at bein’ a half-decent man one day.”

Ben had been a sickly little boy for many years, and only recently was he finding his strength. He had much catching-up to do when compared to others his age. Amy was proud of how far he had come and knew he had great potential, But he needed an adult to guide that potential.

“What about Emma, then?” Amy hated the note of pleading that crept into her voice. “She’s too young. She doesn’t yet know all there is to bein’ a woman.” She spread her hands. “I don’t understand why you don’t want them around. They’re your grandchildren.”

She didn’t understand any part of it. She kept trying to find some aspect that might convince him to reconsider his decision.

Boyd drew himself up and scowled. “I didn’t want Thomas to marry that soiled dove Virginia in the first place.”

This is the first time I’m hearing this.

“We were doin’ just fine on our own, us men. Don’t know what he saw in her. She whelped him two useless children before leavin’ this world. I don’t claim either of those children as family, blood or not.” His voice grew thick, as if spittle gathered in his mouth. A bubble formed at the corner of his lips, like a crazed dog’s froth. “Then he had to go and get married again. At least you didn’t bring any more useless nippers into this world.”

His cruelty stung her, made her eyes burn. Even if the children hadn’t been related to him by blood, how could he not love them, cherish them? Ben was so curious and smart, and Emma as gentle as a lamb. The fact was, they were his blood, and that meant he had a responsibility to them.

Boyd set his clawlike hand on her shoulder, nails digging in. His brown eyes were dark beneath the steel-gray brows. “I won’t talk about this no more, Amy. My word is final. If you want to put them children in the orphanage before we go, I don’t care. Do it or don’t. No matter what, you’re comin’ with me because you’re useful to me. That’s my final say.”

She looked up at him as his nails hurt her, clenching her jaw to prevent her chin from trembling. She refused to show any weakness, to back down.

Then, he tightened his grip. She felt her flesh burning from the pressure, and tiny spots of scarlet moisture appeared on her dress as his nails cut into her. In spite of herself, she gasped. That appeared to satisfy Boyd and he released her, then pointed at the doorway with a sharp jab of his finger.

She stepped back, unwilling, unable, to look away. He slammed the door in her face, almost striking her nose with it. She turned away and saw two small, pale faces raised to look at her.

Ben and Emma. How much had they heard?

Amy wrapped her arms around their shoulders and ushered them away from Boyd’s room before he could discover them there and become angered. She guided them to her room, the one she used to share with Thomas, and shut the door. She did it quietly and prayed Boyd wouldn’t come find her.

“Mama,” Emma whispered. “What’s goin’ on?”

Ben pressed close to Amy, wordless, clutching at her skirt as he used to when he was much smaller. “We heard,” he said, and his voice was full of betrayal. “You didn’t tell us that you’re goin’ West with him. What about us, Ma? You can’t leave us behind!”

Amy crouched before them, and they got down on their knees too, as if they were all about to pray together. “No one is bein’ left behind,” she whispered. Her love for them filled her up fierce and hot, a fire that would never run out of kindling. “Boyd wants to go West. He wants to leave the two of you behind and take me with him. Hush, don’t interrupt. I am not goin’ to let that happen. We’re goin’ to get out of here tonight, the three of us.”

Ben’s eyes went wide. “Like in a story? We’re goin’ to run away?”

“Yes.” She stroked his hair, then touched Emma’s cheek. The girl stared at her, doubt knitting her brow into furrows. “You two need to pack one bag each. Pack clothes, gloves, scarves, hats. One book and one toy each. Pack as much as you can until the bag is about to burst. Then hide your bags under your beds and go to bed tonight. Sleep if you can. I will wake you and we’ll run.”

“Where will we go?” Emma asked.

Amy thought quickly, as she hadn’t even considered that until right then. “We will also go a little West in search of opportunity,” she said. “West, but also mostly north, perhaps into Nebraska.”

Going in the same direction as Boyd seemed a questionable choice and perhaps it was, or perhaps it was also clever. He might not suspect it. Going north and sticking to what she thought were not main roads made it almost certain they wouldn’t cross paths.

Part of her felt guilt for abandoning the man who had at least been gracious enough to let her and the kids stay after Thomas died of illness several years ago. He was old and not very capable. He did need help. However, there were sure to be plenty of folk on the trail who would assist him for a few coins. He would not be abandoned and left for the wolves, as he was trying to do to the children.

“What will you do?” Ben whispered. “Tonight.”

“I will pretend everythin’ is normal while packing my own bags.” Amy took a deep breath. “We must all pretend it’s a normal day. I’m countin’ on you.”

“We can do it,” Ben said. He grabbed her hand and held on tight.

Emma said nothing, but she nodded, which Amy accepted. She held them and gave them each a kiss, then let them go. Ben reached the door first. When he opened it, Boyd was standing there, arms folded across his bony chest. Amy barely managed to hold in her gasp. She struggled to act normally.

“What’s goin’ on in here?” Boyd stared at them all, his lip curled.

“I was tellin’ them their chores for the night,” Amy said, and somehow she sounded normal even to her own ears.

“If they’ve got chores, then they best get busy,” Boyd said on a grunt.

The children looked to Amy. She nodded to them and they hurried away. Boyd lingered to stare at her for a little longer before stalking away, and only then did she manage to breathe again.

For the rest of the day, she tried to alternate packing her own bags and managing the household as normal. She needed to get her own personal belongings together and to pack food and other supplies for a journey of which she knew not the exact length or destination.

Boyd’s presence prevented her from making much progress. He lingered unusually nearby, watchful. She chewed on her tongue, shredded the inside of her cheek to pieces with her gnawing teeth. Had he overheard? Did he know? Was he going to try to stop her?

Dinner came and went, and then it was time to get ready for bed. Amy tucked the children in. “Get some sleep now,” she told them, as she always told them. Only, this night, her words held extra meaning.

She retired to her own room because Boyd was still out there, smoking his pipe. She waited and waited until at last he rose. Her ears, attuned to the sounds of the house, allowed her to track him from the parlor, down the hall, and into his room. He shut the door, and at that point, she could hear him no more.

She rose and crept around her room to pack a few last items, then sat down on the edge of the bed again. She waited again, her heart thumping, blood rushing in her ears. She imagined the old man preparing for bed, settling in, reading or writing in his journal before at last lying down. She wanted him to be deep, deep asleep before she made her move.

Her stomach clenched with anxiety and anticipation, until she could wait no longer. She got up from the bed, lifted her bag. and crept out of the room. She went first to Ben’s room and slipped inside—the situation was too dire to stick to the rules of what was proper.

His eyes were open, gleaming at her in the dark. He sat up, the blankets falling away to show he was fully dressed beneath them.

“Good boy,” Amy whispered. She touched his hair, the curls wrapping around her fingers. “Take your bag and mine. Go wake your sister. Leave through her window and go wait for me by the apple tree down the street.”

She didn’t ask if he understood. There was no time to waste on the little moments that would add up into huge delays. She left her bag with him, then ducked out of the room again. She didn’t stop to listen, couldn’t spare the seconds. She went straight to the kitchen where she had just managed to hide a bag earlier and began to stuff it. She filled canteens, then placed them inside. She grabbed leftover biscuits, apples and carrots, a wedge of cheese, a small pouch of oats.

The selfish part of her wanted to clear out the cupboards. Sense prevented her. What would she do with canisters of sugar and flour? The potatoes couldn’t be eaten unless cooked, and she couldn’t guarantee a fire. And there was the fact that she was not going to leave Boyd with nothing. She couldn’t do to him what he wanted to do to others.

She was grabbing a handful of rags from a drawer when the floorboards creaked. She froze like a rabbit, alarm flooding through her. The floor creaked again and she knew it was Boyd coming her way through the dark, arms already outstretched to latch onto her and hold her prisoner in this place that she now understood had never really been her home.

Amy swung the half-full, devastatingly light bag over her shoulder and broke into a run. She burst out onto the porch in the dark, panting, skirt flapping around her legs. A cold wind slashed at her.

I forgot to pack myself a coat!

Too late now. She couldn’t turn back. Someone was yelling. Boyd, someone else, she didn’t know. She just ran down the street, past the other buildings. Slight, dark shapes jumped out from below the low, twisted branches of an apple tree.

“Run!” Amy gasped. She grabbed the bag she had given to Ben and pushed the children ahead of her.