Prologue

1862—Wyoming

Six Years Ago

Gray eyes snapped open. Pupils dilated, adjusted to the dim light of the bedroom. 15-year-old June Brooks sat up in her bed as she felt a strange chill tremble down her spine. The hairs on the back of her neck pricked as well, and she smoothed a hand down her long, dark braid as if to calm herself. Her multi-colored nine-patch quilt fell away from her shoulders to her lap as she looked around and hugged her doll close to her chest.

She could make out the edges of furniture in the bedroom she shared with her older sister, April. Their bureau, covered with a white lace doily and trinkets collected over shared Christmases. A wash table with its white and blue ceramic bowl and pitcher. April’s bed, carved with little roses on the posts, just like June’s. Her sister was sleeping deeply atop it, her quilt-covered form rising and falling slowly as she slept. Nothing was out of place.

Yet something wasn’t right.

June bit her bottom lip as she swept her gaze slowly around her room, searching for any signs of what could have awoken her. That’s when she heard it. Muffled shouting from a voice she did not know, coming from beyond the bedroom door.

June’s stomach churned as she glanced down at the yellow light streaming through the bottom of her door and watched with growing apprehension as shadowed footsteps danced on the other side.

“Where is she? Is she in here?” the strange voice yelled again.

“Don’t you touch that door!”

June’s heart leapt in her throat as she heard her mother, Mary’s, voice. Her mother, who usually only spoke in low, calm tones, shouted the command with authority.

“You have no right to her,” Mary Brooks went on. “You have no right to be in this house! Leave, Hank. Now. You’re drunk and you don’t know what you’re doing.”

Hank? Who’s Hank?

“Oh, I have no right? She’s my daughter! I have every right!”

Trembling with fear, June hurried out of bed. She pressed her body to the door tightly, holding the knob shut with every ounce of strength she had as her thoughts raced. She and April were the daughters of Mary and Hiram Brooks. Always had been and always would be. Whoever Hank was, he had to be mistaken. His daughter wasn’t here. Never had been.

“How did you find us?” Mary demanded.

“Wasn’t from your help, that’s for sure,” Hank replied. His voice sounded further away now, and the shadows under the door stopped dancing.

June listened as footsteps hurried down the hall toward the living room.

“Either way, it doesn’t matter. I’m not leaving without what’s mine,” Hank added.

“Hank, I’m giving you one last chance before I shout for Hiram. Leave. Now.”

Another shiver of fear ran up June’s spine as she heard the man growl with animalistic rage. She heard her mother gasp before a crashing sound splintered through the air immediately after.

“Mama!” June gasped.

Without even thinking about it, she opened her bedroom door and raced down the hall. She found the man called Hank wrestling atop her mother, who was fighting back as fiercely as she could. Mother and daughter locked eyes then, and even as she fought, Mary shook her head at June as if signaling her to stop and go back.

Instead of obeying, June darted for the staircase that would lead to her parents’ bedroom. She would wake her papa, he would get his rifle, and this Hank man would leave one way or another—but as she ran, she stumbled and hit the side table in the hall. A blue vase filled with yellow daisies crashed at her bare feet, and the entire room suddenly froze.

Mama. Hank. June.

Then, in an instant, they were all moving. Hank after Mama, Mama after June, and June toward the steps. Powerful hands gripped June’s arms, yanking her off her feet just as she was about to hit the second step. She was whirled around by a tall, heavy-set man with familiar gray eyes and a black beard.

“This the one?” Hank asked.

Whiskey-soaked breath fanned over June’s face and made her stomach roil.

“Let. Her. Go,” Mary demanded.

“You heard my wife,” Hiram’s words came from behind June, along with the warning sound of a rifle’s hammer being pulled back. “Let our daughter go.”

For a moment, June was relieved. Everything was going to be all right now. Papa and his rifle were going to make this crazy man leave. Mama would put her back to bed, and in the morning, they would both laugh and call her silly as she told them about this nightmare.

Except…

“You want me to let her go, I’ll let her go,” Hank said, huffing another rank breath over June’s face. “But if you want that, then you’re going to have to pay me for her.”

“Mama, Papa,” June breathed, feeling her knees start to buckle with fear. This wasn’t a nightmare. This was real. “What’s—”

Hank surged forward, letting go of one of June’s arms to wrap around the barrel of the rifle. He thrust it toward Hiram’s face, and June heard a groan of pain as the butt of the gun smashed hard into Hiram’s cheek. With a shriek, Mary lunged at Hank’s back, but he was quicker and jutted the gun over his shoulder, sending Mary sprawling back from him.

“Let go of me!” June screamed, fighting Hank’s grip as he dragged her back to the living room.

“You talk to your father that way?” Hank shot back, jerking her arm.

His words caught June off guard. She stared at him with wide, terror-filled eyes.

Hank let out an evil chuckle as he paused in the living room and brought June’s face close to his.

“They didn’t tell you, did they? Your perfect parents. They didn’t tell you were mine.”

“No,” June whispered, her mind unraveling.

This couldn’t be happening. Less than four hours ago, she was having the perfect day. The type of day she’d always shared with her family. She’d helped her mother prepare and cook meals for the elderly members of the church. She’d finished a new dress for the doll that April had made her—the same doll that was still tucked between her ribs and arm. She’d eaten cold ham and soup beans and fresh tomatoes with Mama, Papa, and April at the dinner table after Papa had said Grace, and then they’d taken turns reading the Bible together before bed.

That was their life. Simple, but rich in many ways, and June wasn’t about to give that up easily. She gritted her teeth and fought Hank’s grip, thinking she was willing to break her own arm if she had to, if it meant getting away.

“Spoiled brat,” Hank seethed, then swung her over his shoulder as if she were a sack of flour.

“Mama!” she screamed, kicking her feet. “Papa, help!”

“They’ll pay,” Hank grumbled as he carried her out. “One way or another, they’ll pay.”

“June? June, I’m coming!” her mother yelled.

June looked up as Hank took her to the porch, just in time to see her mother come around the corner of the hall and into the living room. She stretched her free arm out to her mother, screaming for help, when Hank suddenly turned.

She didn’t see where he’d gotten the lantern from or that he’d even had it. All she saw was it shatter on the rug on the floor, sending it up in flames.

“No!” June screamed, struggling more than ever to get away from Hank.

The flames worked quickly, spreading from the rug to the wooden furniture that cast a hot, orange glow into the front doorway. For a moment, she lost all hope, then, through the flames, her mother ran out toward her.

“Give her back, Hank!” Mary yelled, running toward them.

“Mama!” June screamed again, but this time another voice joined her.

Nausea filled June as she heard April’s matching scream. She froze as Hank continued to carry her off.

“Mary!” her papa’s voice wailed from inside the burning house, followed by another harrowing scream from April.

June watched, traumatized into still silence as Mary stopped coming after her, turned to look at the flame-filled house, then once more back to her.

“We’re coming for you!” Mary called, then ran back toward the house. “We’ll come for you!”

June opened her mouth to scream as she watched her mother disappear into the flames, but no sound came out. A few seconds later, a great creaking arose from the house, and the heavy beams that once held it up caved in on one another, crashing over the front door. The screams from inside ceased all at once.

“No,” June whispered, tears filling her eyes.

“You don’t understand yet,” Hank grumbled as he carried her into the darkness. “But you will. And one day soon, you’ll be thanking me.”

Chapter One

July 1, 1868

Montana

June put down the paring knife and rubbed her sore hands. They were stiff and covered with starch from the several pounds of potatoes she’d just peeled, but not a single nick graced her small fingers, and for that she smiled. Her mama would be proud.

“June! You washed the windows, swept the floors, and you peeled the potatoes for our charity supper tonight?”

June looked up, straightened her frail figure, and, though tired, she smiled warmly at the pastor’s wife, Mrs. McCleary. She and the pastor were kind, devout people, and she would want to help them even if she wasn’t in the predicament she was, as her mama had taught her. The only difference was now she was hoping to get a few pennies in return for the hard labor. After all, it was the only reason Hank ever let her leave the dilapidated cabin he called a home.

Here, at least, her work would also be honored. At the cabin that was nestled into a group of pines, two corn fields, and a meadow away, her work never mattered, no matter how often she cleaned. Even her best efforts never stood a chance against Hank. Hank always ruined everything.

“As Proverbs 15:19 tells us, ‘The way of the lazy man is like a hedge of thorns, but the way of the upright is a highway’,” June replied to Mrs. McCleary. “Besides, I had the time and I like it. It reminds me of my mother. She was very involved with making meals for elderly church members.”

Mrs. McCleary’s faded blue eyes filled with pity as she nodded and smiled.

She was a lovely woman, someone June figured her mama would have been great friends with if they’d ever met. She was in her late thirties, had blonde hair she kept in a tidy bun, and always wore clean, plain, modest dresses. She had a thin but healthy figure and had soft blue eyes. Unlike June, who was only allowed to eat whatever Hank couldn’t finish.

“You are a beautiful daughter of God, June. Your parents would be proud.”

June’s smile tightened, but she nodded.

Like the rest of the community that lay beyond Hank’s isolated cabin, Mrs. McCleary only knew what Hank had told them when he showed up six years ago with a girl they’d never seen before. That June was his orphaned niece, and out of the goodness of his Christian heart, he’d brought her to the small mountain village of Harrison to live with him.

There had been several times over the last six years, June had thought of telling Mrs. McCleary—or anyone, for that matter—the truth. That she’d been stolen away in the middle of the night. That her parents and sister had been murdered by the man who’d taken her. But she never did.

Even if Hank wasn’t good and even though he certainly wasn’t Christian, he was one thing: her father. She didn’t want to believe it at first. Didn’t want to believe that her mama had been with a man like this before she’d run away and found the man who raised her, Hiram. The man who’d always loved her and raised her as a real father should—but after learning more about Hank, she couldn’t avoid the facts.

Like the fact she and Hank shared the same gray eyes and dark, curly hair. Or that she was tall like him, and even when she was younger, had been taller than her older sister, April. Or that also, like Hank, she was left-handed.

It was an ugly truth to be his. But it was the truth.

Over time, June accepted that for better or worse, Hank was her only family left. Even if she hated him for what he’d done to her family, she would do her best to do two things: make the best of her situation and survive. If not for herself, for the sake of the family she’d lost. Above all, though, she would do it for her faith. God still loved her, and these trials were put in her path for a reason.

That was the way her parents raised her, and that was how she would stay. Devout.

“I’m always glad to help,” she finally replied. “I hope everything goes well tonight. I’m sure Pastor McCleary is going to give a wonderful service.”

“You could stay,” Mrs. McCleary quickly offered, taking a step toward June. “Hear the service yourself. Partake in the lovely meal you helped prepare.”

Though she wanted to stay, June shook her head. She had to make it back before sundown, and she had to have supper ready for Hank when he arrived. Even though she never knew when that would be. Most days, after working as a laborer for a nearby ranch, he came into town and drank his daily earnings away at the saloon. Some nights, he didn’t come stumbling into the cabin until midnight. Other nights, he didn’t come back at all.

“I appreciate the invitation, Mrs. McCleary, and you know I would if I could, but Pa will get worried if I’m not home soon.”

June knew it was a lie to say that Hank would be worried. Mrs. McCleary knew it was a lie, too, but she nodded all the same.

“Well, all right then,” she said with reluctance.

Mrs. McCleary reached into her dress pocket for her change purse and pulled out three coins. June’s eyes lit up as she added the three quarters, not believing her luck.

“Are you sure, Mrs. McCleary?” June asked as the woman dropped the three coins in June’s hands. Usually, she got thirty-five cents at most for helping.

“You did so much today, June,” Mrs. McCleary said, closing June’s fingers around the coins. “We wouldn’t be as ready as we are without you. Thank you so much again for your help.”

“You don’t have to clean up after tonight,” June said quickly. “You could leave it for me. I could come back bright and early tomorrow and do it for you.”

Mrs. McCleary nodded, knowing June needed the work. With the coins tucked into her pocket, June headed home. Her aching body relaxed a little when she saw Hank’s horse wasn’t in the lean-to yet, and she hurried inside. Though she had decided to live her life as best she could, she’d also decided that one day, when she had the means to, she was going to leave.

So, any time someone from town paid her for work, she’d give most of it to Hank, as he always demanded, but always hid a little away for herself for that fated day. Today, she could put a whole quarter in her stash box under the loose floorboards. Not just a nickel or dime, but an entire quarter!

June smiled at the thought as she pushed open the badly framed door of the cabin and walked to the lopsided table. She took a quick look around, taking in the ratty curtains that covered the two windows, the two small cots by the fireplace, and the well-worn butcher block that always, no matter how hard she scrubbed, had an awful smell.

Still alone. Still time.

Going to her knees, June crawled under the table and pulled loose the floorboard there. She reached into the darkened hole, felt around, and retrieved the old wooden box she kept her treasure in. Anticipation filled her as she drew out one of the quarters from her pocket and opened the box—then her heart came to a stuttering stop.

“No,” she breathed, finding the little box empty.

Her eyes moved back and forth as she searched the small space, and her hands touched the little corners, as if the coins she’d hid could have become invisible. They weren’t there.

“No,” she sobbed, putting the box down so she could peer into the dark space beneath the floorboards. “No, no, no!”

When she found nothing, she collapsed under the table as her tears broke loose. She cried so hard that she didn’t hear the approaching galloping of the horse or the creaks the outside stairs made. Didn’t notice when the door was pushed open, or when the tiny cabin filled with the nauseating scent of whiskey.

“Thought you were clever, didn’t ya?” Hank’s voice broke through June’s sorrow.

June went rigid as she heard her father’s deep, slurring tone. She slowly picked her head up from the floor, hugging her arms to herself. She looked up at him and didn’t have the strength to hide the venom in her eyes.

“That was mine,” she said, her voice quivering with heartache. “I do what you tell me to do. I give you money when I earn it. But that was mine!”

“Hey!” Hank roared.

He gripped the front of June’s threadbare dress and dragged her up to her feet, pulling her close to his chubby red cheeks and foul breath. She tried to turn her face from his, but he gripped her jaw and forced her to look at him.

“Whatever you bring home is mine. All mine,” he snarled. “I look after you. I take care of you. You owe me!”

His words, like they so often did, triggered the violent memory of the night she lost her family. Hiram had been wealthy. His ranch, now burned and left to spoil over a hundred miles away, was at one time the biggest in the state. Hank still hadn’t shared how he’d found her mother, but she knew why he had searched for them.

Hank had shared his plan many times over the last six years, especially when he was drunk and angry with how his life had turned out. He wasn’t going to hold June for long. He was just going to kidnap her, hold her for ransom. Once Hiram had paid, Hank was going to return her.

It didn’t go that way, though. Hank’s temper had ruined both of their lives forever. Now here they were, a daughter that despised her father and a man who blamed her for his mistakes.

“You don’t hide money from me anymore, understand?” Hank asked.

Sniffling, June nodded. He gave her a disgusted look and let her go. Then, as if deciding he hadn’t vented his anger enough, he swiped his arm along the butcher block. Jars of preserves and bottles of whiskey went sailing through the air, landing in a crash on the bare floorboards and making June wince.

For a moment, Hank’s face reddened as he looked down at the mess he’d just created, then his features twisted as if he was rearing up for another yelling spell. Then he sighed, shook his head as if deciding against it, and plopped down on one of the broken chairs.

“Now make me some dinner and clean this place up,” he said, waving her off. “I found a few rabbits in old man Rasp’s snares. Skin ‘em and make me a stew.”

June stayed silent as she moved to follow his orders. She built up the fire in the hearth, fighting the usual panic that came with the chore, found the rabbits he’d dropped on the porch, prepared them, and made the stew. She set a single bowl down before him and a loaf of old bread, knowing she’d only cause more trouble if she tried to eat alongside him.

Instead, she began gathering up the scattered debris around the cabin in an old grain sack. She was picking up shards of broken glass from the few precious preserves they had when she saw a newspaper beneath. Four words stood out from the other advertisements:

“Mail Order Bride Wanted”

June’s brows furrowed as she saw it, and her fingers froze around the piece of glass she’d just picked up.

“What’s taking so long?” Hank grunted. “Get that cleaned up!”

June’s body released from its frozen state, and she quickly finished cleaning up the mess, paying special care to not ruin the bit of newspaper she’d found. When she was done, she took the trash outside, and only when she was sure she was out of sight did she pull the advertisement from the sack:

“Mail Order Bride Wanted”

Before she could read further, the cabin door burst open, and she jolted, almost dropping the paper. She tucked the paper into her dress pocket, dumped the trash, and came back around the front of the house just as Hank started to holler again.

“Where’d you go?” he demanded.

June pointed toward the side of the house.

“You told me to dump the trash, remember?” she asked.

Hank looked her up and down, then grunted.

“You made me lose my whiskey,” he accused. “Making me mad like that. Go to town. Get me some more.”

“How?” June asked. “You took all of the money, and I know you’re not going to give any back.”

“Darn right I won’t! And don’t sass. Go to the saloon. I beat the owner in poker tonight. Tell them the bottles are for me, he’ll give them to ya.”

June glanced toward the sinking sun. It would set soon, and even if she ran, she wouldn’t make it back to the cabin before dark. Hank was a scary man, but he could at least be reasoned with once in a blue moon. Coyotes and other wild predators, though, couldn’t. Still, she knew there was no waiting until tomorrow. There wasn’t much that could stand between Hank and his whiskey. Even her life.

So she nodded.

“Can I at least have a lantern and my shawl?” she asked.

“Moon’s full,” Hank grunted. “Weather’s turnin’ warm. You’ll be fine.”

With that, Hank turned around and went back into the cabin. Knowing there was nothing she could do but obey, June started walking back into town. Once she was far enough away from the cabin, she pulled out the newspaper again and looked down at the advertisement page.

She couldn’t believe it! Over half of the page was ads for wives! As she walked, she read through them, her mind turning in wonder at the discovery that the modern man could truly buy anything—even a wife. At first, the ads made her giggle. Some were poorly written with low standards from the inquiring women. Others were sternly worded with lots of restrictions. One in particular caught her attention. By the time she’d reached town, she’d read it several times:

Mail Order Bride Wanted

Kind, hardworking, single 31-year-old man looking for a clean, responsible young, single woman to help me care for my ranch in exchange for room and board. Must have patience and a work ethic. Kindness is a preferred attribute. Serious inquiries only.

Matthew Light
25 Light Way Road
Hugo, Colorado

Matthew Light. June liked his name. She liked that it was his address, too. It was shorter than the other ads, but what was written was plain and simple. The fact that kind was written twice also intrigued her.

She could work; she was used to hard labor. She could be clean, given the opportunity for a real bath and a nicer dress. Responsible? Surely.

As she reached town, June stopped on the main street. To her left was the saloon, blaring with light and laughter and fiddle music. To the right was the post office, and through the windows, she could see the postman readying to close up.

June pressed her lips together, her mind racing. She wanted to be free and far away from Hank, but he’d taken her money and with it her hope of such things. But what if she wrote to this Matthew Light? What if he could be her way out?

Lord, if you do not want me to do this, give me a sign, and I will follow whichever path you choose for me.

June stepped to the right, picking up her pace, and ran up the steps to the door. She came to it just as the postman did from the other side, keys raised and ready to lock it.

“Sir,” she called out, “I know it’s late and you’re closing up, but could you please let me mail a letter? I promise I’ll be quick.”

The postman, Mr. Thomas, looked weary as he looked her up and down through the paned glass door.

“We have a box on the porch there. Just put your letter in there and it’ll go out in the morning,” he said through the glass.

“I haven’t written it yet. If I could just trouble you for some paper and a pen, I can have it ready in a minute.”