Prologue

13th September 1868

The Rapp Ranch, Outskirts of Provo, Utah

The warm fall sun beat down on Zachariah Rapp’s back. As he mechanically embedded winter wheat seeds into the dry Utah soil, he could feel sweat gathering across his shoulders and down his spine, tickling his skin slightly where he still had sensation left.

Every now and then, a drip of sweat would travel from his scalp down his neck, and suddenly the feeling of it would disappear as it reached the knotted, twisting scars that covered much of the right of his neck and back. The disappearance of sensation was a constant reminder of why he was there, working, rather than out enjoying himself.

The only things that mattered in his life were the ranch, his mother, and his foreman. As much as he could, he tried to forget that anything beyond those three things even existed. It was easier that way. He dropped one last seed into the soil and straightened up.

With a large stretch, he tried to free his mind from his own thoughts. His muscles ached as he shook his arms to loosen them, clasping his left elbow with his right hand and pulling to stretch out his back. He groaned in satisfaction, and then let his arms drop limply to his side. Reaching into the waistline of his tattered denim trousers, he pulled out his shirt.

Screwing it up in his fist, he used it to wipe away the beads of sweat collecting on his forehead. He let out a small sigh and shook the shirt once, gently, before returning it to its place, tucked into the tight waistband of his trousers. He turned his head, craning his neck to see behind him.

“Not bad for midday,” he mumbled to himself. He’d done around a third of the field so far–he might even be able to get the entire field done by the day’s end. He just needed to hurry it along a little.

Looking out across the field ahead of him, he spotted his foreman, Michael Sturgeon, heading toward him from the barn that sat at the far right corner of the ranch. Zachariah tilted his head to one side, covering his eyes with his hand in an attempt to see better. Michael was supposed to be grooming the horses and feeding the cattle, so why was he heading toward Zachariah? Zachariah’s brows knotted tightly across his forehead as he waited for Michael to reach him.

Before long, Michael had jumped the fence to the winter wheat fields, and Zachariah could see him more clearly. His friend and foreman looked, as he always did, cheerful. He wore dark denim trousers which were in much better condition than Zachariah’s own, with a cream button-up shirt tucked haphazardly into them. His brown hair was slicked back against his head, and there was a small amount of stubble showing along his jaw.

“Afternoon!” Michael yelled as he closed the final few meters between the two of them. A huge smile sat on his face. It was a smile that Zachariah was very accustomed to seeing, and whilst for many people, he was sure it would be one of those infectious smiles, for him it had lost its effect. Michael was always smiling, usually in an attempt to get Zachariah to do the same. Most of the time, the effort was in vain.

“Well, hello!” Zachariah replied. “What can I do you for?”

“Well, I finished with the animals, and figured you could do with a break,” Michael shrugged. “I know that if I don’t come and make you take one, you’ll work yourself to the bone.”

Heat spread across his cheeks and nose. Michael was right. Zachariah’s passion for the ranch often meant he found himself working ridiculous hours and doing far more than his body should ever be expected to handle.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” Zachariah replied. Other people would have taken his tone to be offensive, but he knew that Michael would recognize the humor in his voice – they’d known each other long enough.

“Oh no, of course, it’s not like you’ve already done the work of two men in the space of a morning, then, right?” Michael asked, raising one brow and eyeing the field behind Zachariah. Zachariah rolled his eyes; he’d tried countless times to explain to Michael why he put so much energy and work into the ranch, but it seemed like none of the information sank in. His ranch was his family’s legacy, and after all that they had gone through, it was the least that he could do to keep it afloat and successful. He and his mother had lost enough. They would never lose Rapp Ranch. Not while he was around, anyway.

“If we don’t get this seed sown soon, we’ll miss the sellers’ markets and delivery dates for winter wheat. You know that’s how we make a big portion of our profits, Michael,” Zachariah explained. “Besides, what else am I going to do, sit around and mope? Go into town? Please.” He shook his head and reached down to the small metal bucket by his feet. Lifting it up, he placed the wire handles over his forearm and took a handful of seed out.

“You could rely on the ranch workers a bit more,” Michael objected.

“They’ve got plenty to do,” Zachariah dismissed. Without even looking up, he knew that Michael was rolling his eyes. They had a conversation like this at least twice a week.

“You’re doing too much, Zac,” Michael insisted. “Between this, and caring for Mary,” he shook his head. “Do you even get a moment for yourself?” As if to punctuate his point, Michael looked behind him, over his left shoulder, to where Mary Rapp, Zachariah’s mother, sat in her wheelchair on the porch.

“I sleep,” Zachariah replied with a shrug, following Michael’s gaze across the fields to his mother. When she noticed their attention, she raised her hand in a small, weak wave. The two men waved back, and Michael returned his attention to Zachariah.

“That does not count,” Michael sighed. “You don’t spend any time doing anything for yourself. Not even going to the local saloon. When was the last time you and I went for a drink?” he asked.

“We have drinks in the house. Do you want a drink? Let’s have a drink tonight.”

“Darn it, Zachariah!” Michael yelled. “You make this so difficult, y’know.” He shook his head again and let out an exasperated breath. A pang of guilt radiated across Zachariah’s chest, but he ignored it. He wasn’t trying to be difficult. He just wanted to work in peace. Michael might think he never did anything for himself, but his work was for himself.

When he was lost in ranch work, he didn’t worry about disgusted or pitying eyes on him. The work distracted him from the sensation of his skin pulling at the gnarled scars that spread from his right ear down his back. He’d told Michael this in the past, but it was clearly not something that his foreman understood.

“Sorry,” Zachariah shrugged, looking down at his feet. “I’m just trying to keep the ranch afloat.”

“I know,” Michael said, his voice softer than before. There was a moment or two of silence, and Zachariah hoped that his friend would take the hint and continue with his work so that he could do the same. But instead, Michael stepped closer. “Maybe I’d feel less worried about you if I knew there was a woman taking care of you,” he said quietly. “A wife, perhaps.”

Zachariah began to tremble, but whether it was with frustration or nerves, he could not tell. “A wife?” he hissed.

How dare he suggest I get a wife? he thought to himself. Does he not realize that no woman in her right mind would come near such a freak like me? Any chances I had at marriage were ruined! Zachariah took in a shaky breath, his frustration rising to anger as he looked up from his feet and into Michael’s eyes.

Michael’s eyes widened and he stepped back.

“I-it was just a thought,” Michael said, holding his hands up in surrender. “I just thought you might want some company that isn’t me or, or your mother,” he said quickly. “It was just a thought, Zac, I’m sorry.”

“I could never marry,” Zachariah said through gritted teeth. “It isn’t on the cards for me. Not anymore.”

Michael let out a small, sullen sigh. He looked at Zachariah imploringly for a moment but was met with an icy glare.

“Alright, I’m sorry,” he acquiesced. “I’ll leave you to your work.” He nodded once and turned on his heel. “I will take you up on that drink, soon, though,” he added. With that, he walked off, down the field and back toward the barn. Zachariah glanced up at his mother, checking to see if she had been able to see any of his and Michael’s argument.

She waved at him again and blew a kiss. Completely oblivious, he thought to himself. Thank goodness. He had never spoken to his mother in the same way that he had with Michael. As far as she was aware, he still planned to marry, and he still hoped for a good, happy life. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel that he’d failed, or, even worse, to think that she’d failed him.

Clearing his throat, Zachariah tried to shake off the rush of anger. It wasn’t Michael’s fault he didn’t understand. Zachariah’s position was not a common one, after all. He was just angry at the reminder of the life he could never have.

When he was younger, he used to look at the ladies in his town and wonder which of them he might marry one day, when he was old enough. Turns out the answer was none of them. He ran a hand through his light brown hair–sure, as always, to avoid touching the scars which embraced the right-hand side of his hairline.

“Back to work, Zac,” he told himself, desperate to move his mind on. When he worked, he could just think about what he was doing. The processes of it all, what came next, what else he needed to do that day. The other elements of his life just faded away into the background. It was his quiet place, his sanctuary. He worked hard to keep everything going, but he also worked hard to keep himself sane.

Turning back to the row he was sowing, he took seeds out of his hand one by one and pressed them into the soil. Watching the dry dirt cover the seed provided him some peace; knowing that in eight or nine months days it’d be a fully grown stalk of wheat gave him a feeling of contentment that he failed to find elsewhere. With a small smile, he continued down the row, pressing each seed into the soil and watching as it disappeared. Soon enough, his argument with Michael was in the past, and his frustrations had completely dissipated. It was just him and the ranch.

Then, in the distance, behind him, he heard a voice. He froze. It was not a voice he recognized, which meant it had to be someone traveling between ranches or into town. Slowly, he peered over his shoulder to look at the entrance and the fences that lined the front of the ranch. Walking along the outside of the fence was a young couple.

Younger than him, anyway, maybe twenty-five or twenty-six at the oldest. The two of them were chatting away as they walked, looking across the fields. Zachariah dropped down into a squat, hoping that the hedgerows separating the fields would hide him. He had not left the ranch in months, if not longer. He tried his very best to remain unseen by the townsfolk and other ranch owners–he couldn’t stand the way that they all looked at him.

Their eyes always landed on his scars, and it made his skin crawl. Sometimes, their stares made it feel like his skin was burning all over again. He let out a shaky breath at the thought and rolled his shoulders back, desperate to shrug off the phantom gazes.

So he spent his life working, hiding from passers-by, and caring for his mother. It wasn’t a bad life. He didn’t know why Michael made it out to be so. Sure, he was lonely–but who wasn’t?

Chapter One

14th September 1868

San Francisco, California

Odessa Brown sat at the table in her childhood home, pen in hand. Sat across from her was a pale man who was a few inches larger around the waist than he should’ve been. He had dark, almost black hair that was pulled forward as if trying to cover a dwindling hairline. He wore a suit that didn’t seem to quite fit him and boots that were made for ranch work, not business. Dessie couldn’t quite help but think that he looked like a caricature.

“So, just sign here.” The man leaned across the table, his breath warm and pungent. “And we’ll take this nightmare of a ranch off your hands, little lady.” He smiled at her and a shiver traveled down her spine.

“It’s not a nightmare,” she said quietly, scanning the document before she reached forward to sign it.

“Then why’re you sellin’?” The man smirked. She let out a small huff and focused on the document–he was just trying to get a rise out of her and she knew it. She was selling the ranch because it was the best way to keep herself afloat. She had her baby niece to care for and a life to live. The ranch had worked fine with a whole family to tend it, but now it was just her. She could not possibly keep it going. She’d tried.

Once she’d scanned the document in front of her for the third time, she anxiously raised her hand toward it, gripping the pen so tightly that her fingertips were white. Behind her, she could hear Robin crying in her cot. She too wanted to cry at that moment. She’d grown up on that ranch, and now she was signing it away to a slimy stranger in a bad suit with even worse breath. She had never, for one moment, thought that she’d end up here.

Sign it, she told herself. It’s for the best. A new start. For you, for Robin. Sign it.

Shakily, she pressed the nib down to the document and signed her name. She had to make a conscious effort to sign it as Odessa, and not Dessie. It felt odd, to use her full name. Nobody ever called her by it. It felt as if a stranger were signing away her childhood home, not her.

It was almost a relief.

The second that she finished the stick of the ‘a’, the man snatched the documents away from her. With a grin on his face that deeply unsettled Dessie, he rose from his seat and bowed.

“A pleasure doing business with you, miss,” he said. “Now, get off my property.” And with that, he placed an envelope full of cash on the table. “Shoo, be gone.”

Dessie stared at the man before her in disbelief. She’d packed her bags prior to signing the document, thank goodness, but she had not expected him to want her out the moment the documents were done. He stared back at her, his eyebrows raised.

“Go,” he said, then shook his head as if she were acting like some sort of imbecile.

Slowly, she stood up from her seat and stepped away, turning around to collect Robin from the cot behind her. Placing her in the baby carriage that she had bought downstairs that morning, she collected her bags from the floor beside it. She returned to the table and grabbed the money, flicking the envelope open to check that it had everything inside it that she was due. Satisfied, she steered the pram to the hallway, collected her coat, and then turned back to the man.

“It was not a pleasure doing business with you,” she said simply, her voice stern.

Before he could reply, she whisked away out of the front door and down the dusty track that led away from the ranch. Fortunately, it was not a long way from the Brown Ranch to the town center–so she began to walk. The weather was pleasant enough, with a slight breeze in the air to combat the warm fall sun as it shone down on her and Robin. The young girl had now stopped crying, and, it seemed, had been rocked to sleep by the movement of her baby carriage, leaving Dessie completely alone. She had become accustomed to being alone. Everyone around her, everyone she loved, was gone–except Robin.

She tried hard to focus on the journey, where she had to go first, what time her train was, and the adventure that was ahead of her, but all she could think about was the ranch that she had just sold. It felt as if she’d left a part of herself behind.

“It’ll be alright,” she told herself. “You’ve just got to pay the debts, and then you can go.”

After her family died, she tried to keep the ranch going. It ended badly. There was just too much for one woman to do. Hands had to be paid, equipment needed maintaining, upgrading and managing, the barn had fallen into disrepair, and the livestock were subsequently falling ill from the cold and disease. Loans seemed like the only option to begin with, but she soon found out that they were mistakes. She began to fall further and further into debt. Eventually, the only feasible way out was to sell. She knew that, but it hadn’t made the decision any easier. Then it had occurred to her that by selling the ranch, she’d be able to pay back what she owed and, if it sold for enough, would have had enough to buy a home. As it happened, though, she’d struggled to sell. After all her debt, she had just enough left to get out of San Francisco.

Around the same time that she’d understood the ranch was a losing battle, she had realized that she clearly wasn’t capable of raising Robin and living alone. Maybe if her husband had survived the war, they could have made it work. But after much thought, Dessie decided she’d have to remarry. She was a young widow, and she might be able to find someone understanding of her situation.

Then, when clearing out the house one day, she found a series of letters between her sister and a man in Utah called Zachariah. They’d met through a mail-order bride advertisement, and were discussing marrying one another. He knew about Belle’s baby out of wedlock, and was willing to take her in regardless.

Dessie had suddenly had an idea. Getting married would prevent her from falling into more debt, and would give Robin a life free from judgment. Everyone seemed to think the baby was Dessie’s and those who didn’t, knew that she was born out of wedlock. The only way to stop Robin from being ostracized was to find her a family. So Dessie did.

She had already replied to countless mail-order bride advertisements. But to no avail. Then, when she replied to the letters from Utah as Belle, one thing led to another and soon she was to move to a ranch just outside of Provo, in Utah, where she would marry Zachariah.

She didn’t know much about him, but he knew even less about her. They’d exchanged letters for a month, and in that time she had been going by Belle. She was wracked with guilt. The first time she’d written to him she sobbed all night. She felt as if she were betraying her sister and herself, and yet, some part of her knew it was the right thing to do.

As Dessie and Robin reached the town, Robin began to stir in her baby carriage. She rolled to and fro, giggling and cooing at nothing in particular.

“At least you’re happy,” Dessie mumbled under her breath as she crossed the street. She had walked from acres and acres of farmland into the town and was now surrounded by much larger buildings, hundreds of people, and carts journeying up and down the roads. There was a constant chattering noise that, if she listened carefully, broke down into layers upon layers of strangers’ conversations. From where she was standing on the sidewalk, she could see the bank down Main Road, perfectly positioned on one of the busiest corners. With a small inhalation, Dessie pushed Robin’s baby carriage down the sidewalk, carefully swerving and dodging to make sure she didn’t collide with anyone on her journey. Moments later, she reached the doors of the bank.

It was one of the first to have been built in San Francisco, and it was used by most people in the county. They made much of their money by giving loans to those who needed to set up ranches or businesses and charged late fees and interest on as many of those loans as possible. That’s where Dessie had been caught out. But now, in her bag, she held the ticket to her freedom. She just had to pay them back. Stepping inside, she walked straight over to the reception desk, pushing Robin as she went.

“I need to, uh, I need …” she sighed. “I need to make a payment.”

The man behind the desk looked up from the piles of paperwork stacked around him. He looked around at the roomful of desks. Reams of paperwork piled on every flat surface, and clerks’ abacuses dotted the scanty patches of clear space.

“There’s nobody free,” he said flatly. “You’ll need to wait.”

“How long?” Dessie asked. She tapped her foot on the floor and shifted her weight slightly.

“Until somebody’s free,” the man replied. “Take a seat.” He gestured to his left, where a group of plush armchairs had been seated around a small wooden table. The wall beside it had a large, golden-framed mirror on it, through which Dessie could see all of the men at their tables. She could also see herself, and how tired she looked. She usually pinned her curly chocolate-brown hair back in a large curl at the back of her head. But today it looked frizzy and flat, and her dark brown eyes seemed to match the color under them. Her pale, milky white skin was still smooth and soft–looking, but it was all she had going for her.

“Okay, thank you,” she said quietly, suddenly embarrassed to be there looking the way she did. She pushed the baby carriage around to one of the large armchairs and plopped herself down into it. Carefully, she brushed her hair down with her fingers, trying to place it in a way that looked slightly more presentable. Afterward, she rubbed her eyes, hoping that it’d do something to combat the bags which had found their way under them.

Dessie only had to wait for around fifteen minutes, in the end, before an older man with gray hair and a gray mustache walked over to her. He sat opposite her and explained that the baby’s carriage would not fit by his desk, but that he could see her there since nobody else was waiting. She agreed, and the two of them settled her payments. The man was quiet, and polite, and was the first person she’d seen that day that hadn’t treated her badly. It sparked some kind of hope within her; maybe not everyone is bad, she let herself think.

An hour passed, and Dessie had finally settled all of her debts, just in time for Robin’s patience to run thin. As Dessie stood up to shake the gentleman banker’s hand, Robin began to kick her feet angrily in the baby carriage, grumbling incoherently as she did so. Dessie’s eyes widened as men from around the bank all turned to look. With a quick handshake, she thanked the banker and ran out of the building as quickly as possible. As soon as the fresh air hit Robin, she fell silent, and Dessie stopped for a moment to take a breath.

“Well, I suppose it’s time to say goodbye,” Dessie said quietly, looking down at Robin in the baby carriage. At just nine months old, the baby was blissfully unaware that anything at all was going on. “One more stop, then the station,” she told her, a small sad smile on her face. Robin stared up at her aunt, her eyes wide. “I hope this new life is worth it,” Dessie said. “I just want you to be happy.”

She pushed the baby carriage away from the bank and further down Main Road, through the city center, and toward the cemetery at the end of the town. She looked around as she walked, taking in the sights as she made what was likely her last journey through San Francisco. She passed the saloon that her father and husband used to drink at, the shop where she spent her first allowance, and the dressmaker where she got her wedding dress designed.

A wave of sadness coursed through her and she felt the sting of tears in her eyes. She sniffled and returned her attention to Robin in the baby carriage who had, yet again, fallen fast asleep. Dessie couldn’t help but smile gently down at her. The young babe was so sweet, and even when she decided to throw tantrums in the bank office, Dessie would do absolutely anything for her. One look at Robin reminded her of why she was leaving her home.

She blinked away the tears and crossed the road to the small cemetery where the soldiers who had lost their lives in the war had been laid to rest. Since it was a Union soldiers’ cemetery, it was small and that meant that it was usually quite quiet. Dessie liked that–she felt like she actually had the space to mourn. She stepped through the gap in the wall that lined the cemetery and wandered along the small pathway which meandered through the graves. Her husband had been buried right at the back of the graveyard, which only provided her with further comfort when she came to visit. It was much more private.

After a few minutes of walking, she reached his grave. Pulling the baby carriage off of the path, she placed it near the tombstone and gently dropped down to her knees in front of it. She placed one hand on it, feeling the smooth cold stone beneath her hand. She smiled at the familiar sensation.

“Hello, honey,” she said, tears springing to her eyes. “I won’t be able to visit again, at least, not for quite some time. I have to try and give Robin a better life, you see. Here, everyone looks at us like we’re sinners.” She shook her head and tears began to fall down her cheeks. “I need to make sure she doesn’t grow up in that kind of environment…goodness knows what it’d do to her. So we’re leaving town, and, well, I don’t know when I’ll be back. Or if I’ll be back, for that matter. I know you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me, Thomas. You were always a kind man. I’ll miss you,” she sniffed and let go of the tombstone. With one last glance over it, she brought her fingertips to her lips and kissed them, and then pressed her fingers against the rock once more. She pushed herself up from the ground, standing on shaky legs, and looked down at the tombstone. She felt her lip quiver and desperately pushed away the feelings.

“Be strong,” she told herself out loud. She took a deep breath, letting the warm air fill her lungs before slowly exhaling. “Let’s go,” she said, her voice full of a determination that she did not quite feel. She grabbed the baby carriage and pulled it back onto the path, and then began the walk to San Francisco station. The entire walk, she repeated the words in her head that her sister had said to her on her wedding day.

It’s scary now, but this is the first step towards your happy ever after. The first seed sown in a new ranch is always frightening, but it can grow into something wonderful.

She hoped that this seed would grow into something wonderful. She really needed a slice of wonderful right now.