Prologue

Poughkeepsie, New York, 1871

When does a person fail? Is it when they miss the mark? Break a promise? When a day ends in silence instead of song, the hearth gone cold and no laughter left to echo off the walls? If the effort was honest—if the hands come back empty but bleeding—does that count?

Maisie Ward had failed many times, but in her twenty-two years, she had never failed like tonight.

Ivy—her precious elder sister—lay in their iron-framed bed, fever burning hot enough to set the cotton bedding on fire. Maisie had tried all she could, but money was scarce, and what little they’d managed to collect this week went toward little Junie’s needs. Maisie’s niece was only a year old, and she needed much.

The night felt hollow, the silence stretched long and thin like a taut thread ready to snap. A single oil lamp—their only one—waited in the kitchen, casting a dim halo that barely softened the chill crawling up from the floorboards. Its flame flickered, light snagging in the crevices of the pale paint peeling from the walls.

Her reflection wavered in the water heating inside the enamel pot. Hazel eyes, sun-kissed skin, dark-blond hair—features that were usually familiar—looked ghostly and wrong. Her chest tightened, as if even her reflection knew she was failing.

“Maisie.”

Ivy’s voice, once musical, sounded cracked and rough from the bedroom. Had Maisie not been listening—ever alert for her sister’s call or Junie’s cry—she might have missed it.

She carried the oil lamp and the fresh bowl of heated water back to the room. Every step drew a groan from the aged wood, the sound mixing with Ivy’s shallow inhales.

“I’m here,” Maisie said.

The lamp found a place on the bedside table, next to a delicate porcelain cup. Inside lay a herbal infusion she’d prepared for Ivy mere minutes ago.

Maisie dipped a cloth in the water. The basin smelled faintly of mint and rust. The liquid felt warmer than her heart, its steam soft against her cheeks. With trembling fingers and a sharp twist of her hands, the excess water noisily fell back into the bowl, leaving behind a damp but heated cloth. She wished, as she delicately cleaned the sweat from Ivy’s exposed skin, that the warmth which felt so comforting against her fingers could heal her sister by magic, but Maisie was not foolish enough to believe that.

“Maisie.”

“Yes,” she answered the fevered call.

“Maisie. Junie…?”

Instinctively, Maisie looked to the corner where Junie slept, unaware of what was happening to her mother and too young to understand even if she were awake.

“Sleeping. She was a good girl today.”

Ivy smiled. “Good…” Her voice drifted, lashes fluttering with the effort of staying awake. “Junie is such a precious girl.”

“I know.”

“Need to… need to keep her safe.”

Maisie brushed a hand through her sister’s deep, golden-blond hair. The vibrant locks she’d always envied were damp and matted against Ivy’s skin, their luster gone—like Ivy’s strength.

“We will,” Maisie promised.

She helped Ivy sit, needing to feed her the infusion—peppermint and chamomile to coax a fever sweat, a small measure of white willow for the aches. “From Zeke,” Ivy rasped, panic fraying the words.

“He’ll take her. Maisie! He’ll… he’ll…”

“Hush.” Maisie steadied the cup at Ivy’s lips.

Ivy’s coffee-dark eyes, dulled and glassy, begged where words failed.

“Swear it.” Her hand trembled as it reached for Maisie’s, veins stark beneath parchment-thin skin. “You’ll protect Junie. Hide her from Zeke.”

Maisie grabbed her sister’s hand to keep it still, but Ivy dragged her closer and squeezed it with more strength than Maisie thought she could have.

Maisie let Ivy pull her closer and squeezed back, surprised by the flash of strength. “I swear.”

“He can’t have her, can’t hurt her. Please,” Ivy sobbed out, the sheen of tears beginning to gather in her eyes and carve a path down her cheeks.

Maisie hummed the lullaby their mother once sang, her voice barely a whisper, until Ivy faded off to sleep. Standing, she left to fetch more cold water. Basil and mint were soaked in the liquid before she returned with it to her sister’s bedside. Once more, she left a few cloths to soak before gently applying them as compresses to Ivy’s forehead and limbs.

The night grew long as Maisie sat next to the bed. It was small, barely able to squeeze two, and Ivy needed the comfort more. Maisie would not be sleeping regardless. Her tiny home had never been meant for two people and a baby, but when her sister arrived, breathless and desperate, scarcely a month past, Maisie hadn’t hesitated to welcome her.

They spoke of getting someplace bigger, but there were no funds for such a thing when Maisie alone worked. An apothecary assistant only earned a meager sum, not enough for grand dreams.

Maisie only left once more to get herself some tea. In the kitchen, the clock ticked away. It was nearly two in the morning. She sighed and returned to the bedroom with a warm cup of chamomile. Hours dripped by as she continued to work and watch as her sister’s breath slowed.

By sunrise, Ivy Blackwell, née Ward, was gone.

Maisie could not say how long she sat there. Time had lost meaning. Her lips gently rested against Ivy’s knuckles as she willed herself to control her breathing and hold back the burn in her throat.

If she’d studied more—learned more—would she have known how to save her?

Junie’s cry lifted her from the chair. Her legs were stiff and tingling, as if half asleep. She lifted her sweet little niece and rocked her, murmuring gentle words of comfort. Junie was too young to understand; part of Maisie knew the words were more for herself than the baby.

As she started the morning’s small rituals—cleaning and feeding Junie—she kept bumping into things that reminded her of Ivy. One month had been enough for the house to feel like theirs. It felt cold now, silent in a way she hadn’t known it could be.

They needed to leave.

Maisie could not stay where every creak of the floor and shadow on the wall whispered of her failure. The rag doll Ivy had sewn for Junie lay beside the cradle. The chipped teacup Ivy favored still sat on the table, half full of cold infusion. Zeke would find her here easily as well.

Zeke would find her here easily as well.

She packed a small bag with what she could carry: a couple of blankets, a few bottles, some rations, the last of her herbs. Beneath the bedroom floorboard, she pulled out a tin with money Ivy had stolen from Zeke—“a rainy-day fund,” Ivy had called it. There wasn’t much—not even enough to afford the medicine that would have helped—but it would do.

Grabbing the warmest shawl she owned, Maisie wrapped Junie as tightly as she could. She didn’t look around, didn’t dare step back into that room to look upon Ivy’s face one last time. A silent apology went to the landlord, who would likely be the one to find her sister’s body—she had no time for a burial. Ivy had asked her for one last thing, and Maisie would be damned if she didn’t do it.

She stepped into the street, where the world was waking. Milk carts rattled over cobblestones, a rooster crowed somewhere down the lane, and smoke curled lazily from chimney tops. Life went on, oblivious to the ache she carried in her chest. Where she would go was a mystery, but she needed to be gone before anyone asked questions—or Zeke finally realized where Ivy had run.

Chapter One

Twin Forks, Colorado Territory, 1871

Maisie’s mother had taught her and Ivy that lying was a sin. If they were ever caught in a lie, they were immediately belted. It was never a harsh belting; Maisie was certain it hurt her mother more than it hurt them, but it was enough to make the lesson stick. She still respected her mother’s teachings. She both loved and missed the woman dearly, despite how young she’d been when her mother passed of a fever. It was why each lie she spoke tasted of bitter tea brewed with weeds.

And still, she drank it down. Maisie forced each word past her tongue like poison meant to save a life. Junie’s life. Nine weeks after losing her sister, she found herself telling lies each day.

The residents of Twin Forks were curious, and each question they asked was met with a lie in response. With every introduction, she used the new last name she’d chosen. It wasn’t too bad; she rarely left the little house she had managed to get. There were only two reasons she stepped outside: the few odd apothecary jobs she managed to scrounge up, and the times she needed to collect supplies or payments.

The only thing she cared about was protecting Junie. She did not need a social life, did not need people to tell her to find a husband. She’d already swallowed many sideways glances, many hushed whispers behind handkerchiefs back in New York. She wore judgment like an old coat now; patched, heavy, familiar. This was fine. She would survive.

“Gahh!” Junie cried, her arms flinging up as Maisie came closer.

She grabbed the one-year-old, tossed her lightly—loud, shrieking laughter bouncing off the walls—then caught her and settled her on her hip.

“Is little Junie ready to go to the market?” Maisie asked the clapping child.

She knew to avoid the markets when they were busy. She’d gone once during a peak hour and had been bombarded with too many prying eyes and even more prying questions. By late morning, most locals would be tending fields, with only a few women and children too young for schooling left to wander. That was the best time for shopping.

Twin Forks was a rural town surrounded by ranches. Dirt roads were rutted deep with wagon tracks, and the smell of livestock clung to the air. Dust rose in lazy spirals with every hoofbeat. Wooden storefronts lined the main strip, leaning ever so slightly—as if the buildings were tired of standing straight against the wind. A blacksmith’s hammer rang in the distance, the clang bouncing off the foothills, and a dog barked somewhere near the livery.

After seven weeks in Twin Forks, Maisie had a system. She knew where each stall she needed was, how long it would take to get there, and what she needed to buy. She moved quickly, hoping to be home before Junie grew fussy.

She kept her head down and her shoulders stiff as she walked. Her ears strained for any change in tone, any hush that might mean her name spoken behind her back. Her boots crunched over straw, and the hem of her cotton skirt caught on a splinter jutting from a warped boardwalk plank. She stopped, pulled it loose, and glanced around the market.

Barrels of dried beans and root vegetables stood beneath hand-lettered signs. The crisp bite of vinegar mingled with the scent of fresh apples, their skins still taut from the lingering chill of spring mornings. A woman with stains on her apron barked prices to a young boy wrangling a goat on a rope. Within half an hour, Maisie had gathered almost everything she needed. Her last stop was the baker’s.

“Back for your usual, Miss Maisie?” the baker asked.

He was a grizzled man with blond hair that reminded her of Ivy and a scratchy beard his wife would soon make him shave.

“Yes, sir,” Maisie replied.

Her eyes flicked around the market, uneasy. She didn’t like being outside the protection of the house for so long. She felt eyes on her, though she knew none were truly there. This was the last errand; after this, she could avoid coming out again for a week—unless someone sought her out for apothecary work.

“Oh, if it isn’t Maisie West!”

The cheerful call came from a bright-eyed woman with a hearty build and hair almost as blond as her husband’s.

“Ma’am,” Maisie greeted politely, forcing a small smile despite not welcoming the attention.

“I’ve told you, dear, call me Cissy.” She ambled up, but not before flicking her husband a look that sent more of this and that into Maisie’s order.

Maisie hated the pity, wanted to tell her that it wasn’t needed, but it was. She needed every bit she could get, and she wouldn’t be selfish enough to take food from Junie because of pride.

“Now, I have some news…” Cissy glanced around before leaning in to whisper. “A gentleman came by the market—a wealthy one, too. Had a hired driver, and I haven’t seen clothes that fine in all my years.”

Maisie nodded and leaned closer to catch every word. She wouldn’t risk Junie on coincidence. A wealthy man was coming for her, and if this was Zeke, she needed to be ready. She knew—after watching her sister suffer in marriage to him—that he wasn’t as kind as he liked to pretend.

“He was asking a lot of questions, said he was looking for family, the poor thing.” The baker’s wife locked gazes with Maisie, her smile still sweet, but her eyes sharp, and Maisie was struck with the thought that the woman might not be as naive as she thought. “He had a pretty picture of his family—looked sweet. His daughter looked near the age of this precious little tyke.”

Cissy pinched Junie’s cheeks, and Maisie’s heart stuttered. Her throat clenched, and the world narrowed. Market sounds blurred, as if dunked in water. Her fingers tightened on Junie’s back.

“Your order, Miss Maisie.”

The baker’s call snapped her out of it. She smiled, nodded thanks, and took the parcel. Cissy caught her trembling hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

“I told him I’d seen that sweet family, but they weren’t here long. Pointed him in a direction I figured they’d taken, and he lit out of town. If he’s found them, I can’t say. I reckon he’ll be back soon if he doesn’t.”

She let go of Maisie, who stared at the woman in shock or thankfulness. Maisie couldn’t tell which she was feeling.

Maisie forced another smile, gave a too-stiff nod, and made her way home on shaky legs. Once inside, she barred the door, her heartbeat trying to punch through her ribs. Her hands moved on instinct—folding, wrapping, stuffing bags—while her thoughts howled behind her eyes.

Should she leave now? Wait? Both choices felt like stepping off a cliff. If Zeke had already left Twin Forks, she could vanish like smoke. If he hadn’t, she might walk straight into his waiting jaws. The not-knowing was its own torment.

She waited through two searing days and three bone-rattling nights. The air grew thick with dust and heat, and every creak of the porch boards made her stomach twist. The bags sat like silent accusations by the door, a reminder of every minute she hesitated. She didn’t dare crack the door—not even to fetch water, not even when she knew she needed to work for money. What if he was out there, waiting for her to blink?

When Zeke Blackwell finally appeared, striding down the hard-packed path, she spotted him through the grimy kitchen window as easily as if she’d conjured him.

She recognized him instantly: the confident stride of a man who’d never had to chase what he wanted. Clothing pressed clean. Jaw sharp as a blade. He used to turn heads—hers included, once. Now all she saw was a man wrapped in control and cruelty like a tailor-made coat. His auburn hair was slicked back, and though she couldn’t make out the finer details of his face, she knew those shrewd blue eyes would be hiding anger.

Maisie jerked back from the window, breath trapped. Her knees scraped the splintery boards as she dropped low, crawling over grit toward the corner where Junie sat with her doll. The planks bit her palms; the stale scent of hearth ash and old stew filled her nose.

The house was no bigger than a chicken coop and just as noisy, and every slam of Zeke’s fist on the door boomed through the walls like rifle fire, rattling the few dishes left in the cupboard.

“I know you’re in there, you little tart!”

Perhaps the tone would have scared her if this were the first time she’d heard him yell with that furious growl—but it wasn’t. He raised his voice as easily as he’d raised his fists toward Ivy, and Maisie had seen it, heard it, too many times to be surprised.

“Where is Juniper? Give me my daughter!”

Junie’s wide eyes shimmered. Her tiny chest fluttered with shallow, fast breaths. She shrank as if she were trying to make herself disappear into Maisie’s arms. The sight nearly broke Maisie in half.

She reached into the bag and fumbled out a dry biscuit, which crumbled in her fingers—anything to plug the terror in her niece’s throat. She pressed it into Junie’s hands, whispering a hush without words. Her gaze darted around the room like a trapped animal’s. She scrabbled for the bags, pulling them close like a lifeline. Every move felt too loud. She prayed the floor wouldn’t betray her with a creak as she crept toward the back door.

Did he know it was there? Would he notice her escaping? She didn’t know, but she couldn’t risk staying. He would break the door down; she was certain of it.

“You have no right to keep her. She’s mine! Bring her to me, Maisie Ward, or so help me, I’ll make you regret this for the rest of your pathetic life!”

Behind the back door was a narrow path with deep shadows that led to an alley. Maisie had scouted it the day she moved in and mapped every cross-way over the weeks.

She moved on instinct, body numb but obedient, shoes slapping dry dirt and stones that jabbed through the soles. The path carried her to the town’s edge. She passed the wooden sign, its blue letters softened by the mist of early spring rains: Welcome to Twin Forks.

Junie fell asleep in her arms after an hour. Maisie’s muscles ached and burned the longer she walked, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. When a lone carriage passed, she realized the road was too open; he’d see her. She cut away into the fields, shoes soaking as she trudged through the wet.

The air carried a cool sharpness, tinged with the scent of thawing earth and the first timid buds fighting their way into the light. The rustle of wheat brushing her skirt whispered to her as if they had voices. Somewhere far off, a lark called out, a high, sweet trill slicing through the silence.

As the sky lightened from black to deep blue and softened with each passing minute, she reached the edge of a ranch. She heaved the bags over a fence, then climbed after, holding Junie carefully. She didn’t care if anyone saw; she didn’t even look. She gathered the bags and kept walking.

Her legs quivered with each step, joints grinding like rusted wheels, but she didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Every step was a refusal to give up. Every breath was a rebellion. She’d carry Junie to the ends of the earth on bloodied knees if she had to.

Finally, when she got close to a corral, her knees gave way and she crumpled into the dust, her skirts soaking up the morning dew from the grass. Her muscles screamed, her lungs burned, but she clung to Junie like she was the last bit of grace God might grant.

Her spine met the fence with a dull thunk, rough slats digging into her shoulder blades. She wrapped Junie in two threadbare blankets, fingers stiff and shaking, and tucked the child close. The baby’s soft breath warmed her neck. It was proof that she’d done something right today.

Just a moment, she told herself. Just a breath’s rest, then up and on.

Maisie was out before the sun had truly risen.