Prologue

Appleton South, Arkansas

Early spring, 1887

“You know better than to ride a horse like that!”

If Simon Jepson heard his brother’s words, he gave no sign. Digging his boots into his horse’s sides, he rode at a breakneck pace up the gravel entrance that led from the main road to the Jepson ranch. Simon was quickly out of sight, galloping between the stately row of pecan trees that had been there since the brothers had been young.

His brother, Joseph, swatted away a low-hanging branch of one of those trees in disgust as he strode from the gates to the Jepson ranch. He’d wasted enough time already, arguing with Simon, two years his junior. There was work to be done.

He spotted Michael Everett, the foreman of the Jepson ranch, standing by one of the pecan trees, its green leaves surrounding him as he stood there, his features revealing nothing as the foliage gave the impression of concealing him inside the branches.

“Simon wants money. Like he always does,” Joseph said accusingly, although Michael had not spoken. “It’s all he ever wants.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him no, what do you think?” Joseph stood before Michael as if they were adversaries. His shoulders, set back and strong from years of doing a man’s work when he wasn’t much more than a boy, challenged the breadth of his brown plaid shirt. His hair, blond and long because he’d been too busy to take a pair of scissors to it once the spring planting got underway, fell to the neckline of his shirt. “I don’t put in a full day’s work so I can give my wastrel of a brother money to waste on drinking on whoring.”

Michael still said nothing, irritating Joseph more because his silence seemed to be an accusation without words. At least, that was how it felt to Joseph. Even though Joseph, standing six feet and five inches before he put his boots on, towered over others, there was something about Michael, a head shorter, that gave the impression of authority.

“I suppose you think I should give him money just because the only time he shows up here is when he wants me to fork over hard-earned cash.”

Michael tilted his head back and his impassive blue gaze met Joseph’s brown glare. “That’s not what I’m thinking,” he said. “There was a father who had two sons.”

Joseph groaned and put his hand in front of his face in exasperation. “Not another Bible story,” he exclaimed. “Not again.”

Nothing, not even Joseph’s quick-flare temper, ever seemed to ruffle Michael’s calm. “It’s the same story,” he acknowledged, “but the folks change.”

“I’m not of a mind for a sermon or a lecture,” Joseph said.

“How’s about a suggestion?” Michael offered, his tone equable and his countenance mild.

Joseph’s eyes narrowed. “The same one as before? The one about how you and Susanna are just so happy that you think it behooves me to send out for a woman I don’t know and ask her to marry me?”

“That’s not quite how it works,” Michael said reasonably.

That may not have been how it worked, but that was how it had appeared to Joseph ever since his foreman, the ever-unflappable Michael Everett, had announced that he needed the afternoon off on a sweltering hot day in summer because he had to meet the train coming in from Virginia. His mail-order bride was arriving and they’d be getting married. Joseph, completely taken aback by the news, had only been able to nod mutely. Since then, though, Michael wore contentment like a comfortable pair of shoes. It wasn’t that he smiled any more, or he was more loquacious. No, it was none of these things. He was just plain happier and it was always part of him.

Joseph liked Susanna; she was a practical, no-frills kind of woman who could lend a hand when it was time to slaughter a hog with the same equanimity that she displayed when she welcomed Joseph to the Everett table, which was now a weekly standing invitation. There too, in the humble foreman’s cottage with its simple layout—kitchen, sitting room, bedroom—an aura of placid contentment reigned. Joseph didn’t understand it. They hadn’t known each other until the day they got hitched, but now Michael and Susanna were a pair of lovebirds.

“There’s nothing in my family line that promises a happy marriage or a happy family,” Joseph argued. He began to head toward the hog pen. Michael strode along beside him. “You know my mother ran off.”

“That doesn’t mean that your wife will,” Michael replied.

Jack, Joseph’s beagle, scented his master’s approach and fell in step with the two men as they walked toward the hog pen. Joseph reached down to scratch Jack behind his ears.

“I’m not inclined to be lucky with women,” he said guardedly. It was not a topic he was comfortable discussing, not the family shame of a mother who had abandoned her husband and two young sons, nor the more recent humiliation of Elizabeth Logan, who had been his fiancée until she ran off with Frank Carter, once his closest friend. Joseph, at twenty-eight years of age, had limited experience with the fairer sex, and even that minimal amount had soured him on marriage.

“All women aren’t your mother,” Michael answered. “Or Elizabeth.”

“Maybe not,” Joseph said, giving Jack an extra pat on his head because he knew the beagle expected it. “But they sure seem to be. I must give off bad luck with women like a skunk gives off stink.”

“Love can come after marriage.”

“Never mind the marriage talk, will you?” Joseph begged, his tone both pleading and demanding. “There’s work to do and I don’t have time for nonsense like marriage.”

“God said ‘it is not good for man to be alone,’” Michael intoned. “And out of Adam’s rib, God created Eve.”

“Just look how that turned out!” Joseph snapped and, taking full advantage of his long-legged stride, walked faster until he reached the hog pen.

He had work to do and he didn’t have time to commence writing love letters to a woman he’d never met.

Chapter One

Two years later, May 1889

Smalltown, Ohio

The sheet had been pulled over Tim Barker’s body. The doctor had come and gone, promising that he would send the undertaker to do his duty. Ellen Barker had nodded. There was nothing to say. Tim had been the last to die; the cemetery held three freshly dug graves containing the other Barkers who had died in this hideous spread of deadly fever that had marked them as victims. Mother, Father, and Ted. All gone. Now Tim, her oldest brother.

She alone was left of the Barker family.

Bigg let out a bark and licked her cheek. She held the puppy close. He had been a birthday gift from Tim for Ellen’s twenty-first birthday. Tim, always up for a jest, had named the collie pup Bigg. “Bigg Barker,” he’d explained as Mother cut slices of apple cake, Ellen’s favorite, and Father passed the plates around the table.

The family had laughed at Tim’s joke, one that was especially apt because little Bigg wasn’t very big, probably the runt of the litter and therefore certain to have moved Tim’s tender heart. Ellen had held the collie puppy close to her as he nestled into her lap, pleased with her present and the name Tim had bestowed upon him.

“Now what do we do, Bigg?” she asked the puppy in a whisper. Her brother awaited the undertaker; Tim’s body was still here, but only a shell, and soon he, too, would be taken away by the same undertaker who had already made several solemn visits to the Barker farmhouse.

Ellen didn’t know what to do. Casting a desperate glance at her brother’s form beneath the pale sheet, Ellen left the room. Neighbors had brought food for the succession of deaths that had turned the Barker parlor into a death chamber. Ellen had no appetite, though, and there was no one else to eat any of it.

She drifted through the shadowed hallways of the farmhouse and opened the door to admit fresh air. Spring was in redolent bloom and the fragrance of Mother’s roses wafted in the air. There were roses on her grave and the flower, once Ellen’s favorite, now reminded her of death. The scent, once a heavenly aroma that heralded the onset of summer, was now counterfeit.

“What are we going to do, Bigg?” Ellen whispered. There was no one left to hear her but her puppy; still, she spoke as if she could be overheard, as if her family, in some nether region between life and afterlife, would be hurt to think of her plight now that she was alone.

She was the youngest of the family and the only girl. Cosseted by her loving father, shaped by her perceptive mother, teased and petted and indulged by her brothers, Ellen Barker had not been raised to manage adversity. She was too plain to be a coquette, but her brothers never made her feel homely. She was short-sighted and stocky; steel-rimmed spectacles perched upon an impish nose and thick brown hair was loosely tied in a knot at the base of her neck. Black did not become her, but she was a young woman in mourning, and as such, the color of her garments had to conform to the expectations of others.

At age twenty-one, Ellen Barker was well-educated in the manner of young women of her era. Her knowledge was suitable for young ladies. She knew history and literature. She had studied mathematics, but not learned how to apply it practically, for Father managed the household accounts. Ellen and her Mother cooked and sewed and conducted the gentler tasks of the home. It was enough for a girl, for girls married and brought those domestic skills to their own homes and families.

No one at the Cincinnati Academy for Young Ladies knew anything different or could envision a reason to know anything else. But what a female should do when there was no longer a father or a brother to look after them was not on the academic curriculum.

Ellen looked out upon the fields that her father and brothers had planted. The seeds in the soil were now yielding the vegetables which were to have fed the family and been sold in the market to support the farm. Planting the garden was for the men, but the daily care of it fell to Ellen and her mother. It was a task they had loved, finding pleasure in the rich yield of the earth as they brought it to the table to feed their loved ones. At harvest time, Father would have hired workers to work the fields, gathering up the crops which would be stored in the root cellar, or canned, or sold.

There was profit there, for farming was a livelihood. But Ellen did not know how to run a farm. She had never even been inside the local bank. In fact, she didn’t know any woman in Smalltown who had ever even been inside a bank. She knew Mr. Eustace Aldrich, the president of the Smalltown Bank, but only in his capacity as an elder of Smalltown’s First Presbyterian Church. She had never written a check or paid a bill. She was not trained to be anything except a daughter and a sister—and, perhaps, a wife.

But she was alone except for the dead brother in his bedroom. As she headed towards the front of the house, Ellen passed the other bedrooms: the large room at the top of the staircase where her parents had slept; the smaller bedroom across from Tim’s, where Ted had taken advantage of the window’s proximity to sneak out at night and pick apples from the tree conveniently close to the room; her own bedroom, the only one with its door open. In a house where a family of five had lived and loved and shared so many joyous occasions, only one bedroom now housed a living person.

Her heart was so heavy within her that descending the stairs felt like a chore. She moved with black-skirted speed through the dining room, the sitting room, and Father’s office so that she could flee from the burden of solitude, and took refuge on the porch. The memories were there as well, but with the breezes stirring the air, she felt less confined.

Here, the Barker family had joined together for evenings outside. Sometimes there would be singing of hymns, for Father had a magnificent baritone and he dearly loved a song. Sometimes the boys would be engaging in their foolery, making everyone laugh as they tormented one another with outrageous pranks. The family had spent much time inside, of course, but in pleasant weather, this was their center. She could still feel their presence here, the way it had been before the fever had begun to stalk the Barker family.

Her solitude was interrupted an hour later by Foster Samples, the undertaker, sitting straight-backed and solemn, with his hands on the reins of a black horse pulling the black wagon of his trade. At Mr. Samples’ side was his equally somber assistant, Laughner McPherson.

Ellen met the pair on the first step of the front porch, Bigg scampering around her heels.

“Miss Barker,” Mr. Samples, having descended from the hearse, nodded at her. “I am grieved to learn of your loss.” Mr. Samples was attired in the colors of his occupation, with only a starched white shirt to relieve the monotonous black of his coat, trousers, vest, and hat. He was a tall, lean stick of a man who had, Father had sometimes observed, an unfortunate resemblance to a cadaver.

Ellen merely nodded. She had nothing to say that she hadn’t already said in his previous visits.

Mr. McPherson was at Mr. Samples’ side. He nodded to Ellen as his employer had. Ellen stepped aside so that they could make their way, familiar to them by now, along the carpeted hallway to the staircase, and from there to the upstairs bedroom where Tim’s body awaited them.

Ellen was drained of tears. Now, she could only feel the dreadful, creeping loneliness that gathered its strength from the shadows of the dark house. Every room was silent. It was too early to light the lamps, as the sunlight spilled into the house from the windows, and yet, Ellen sensed darkness. The absence of her Mother’s smile, her father’s great, hearty laughter, and the merriment of Ted and Tim created a huge vacuum within these once-welcoming walls. Now she, the living, was outcast from the society of the dead. The house felt as if it were a tomb and because she was living, she did not belong here any longer.

Then Bigg, possibly as troubled by the silence as she was, emitted his little, imperious bark. Ellen bent down and scooped him up in her arms. Upstairs, the floorboards creaked as the undertaker and his assistant attended to her brother.

“Oh, Bigg,” Ellen breathed against the puppy’s soft golden and white fur, “whatever are we going to do?” Her tears dripped onto his fur and Bigg turned his head to scrutinize her curiously.

Chapter Two

Appleton South, Arkansas

June 1889

Joseph’s trips to town were few. He bought what he needed in bulk, leaving Michael to take care of picking up the mail at the post office, bringing horses to be shod at the blacksmith’s forge, and doing whatever else had to be done. Smalltown was filled with folks who took too much interest in each other’s business, in Joseph’s opinion. He said as much to Michael, who was trying to persuade him to join the Esaus, a men’s group at the church who went on hunting trips in the fall season in order to provide meat for the people of the town who would be in need of food during the winter months.

“Taking an interest in what our fellow man is doing doesn’t mean everyone is nebbing into other folks’ business,” Michael argued patiently.

Joseph paused. He was on his way to the hog pen. Luce, the ever-fertile sow, had dropped a litter of piglets in late spring. They wouldn’t be at slaughter weight for some time yet, but Joseph liked to keep a close eye on their progress. Jepson pork and bacon fetched a good price on the market and Joseph had plans for that cash when it came in.

“I’m not joining any hunting club,” Joseph said in exasperation. “I’ve got work to do around here. So do you, as I recall,” he added pointedly.

The sun was getting hot. Joseph took off his hat and wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve. He had started his work day early, mindful of the summer heat, and standing outside, jawing about nothing of importance, did nothing to improve his temper.

“I do,” Michael nodded. “When my work is done, I go home to a fine meal cooked by my wife. It’s time you did the same.”

Joseph made a disgusted sound and began moving toward the hog pen with his long-legged gait. Michael, not as tall but just as persistent, followed along.

The piglets were squealing as they crowded around their mother’s generous form to nurse. Joseph leaned against the fence of the pen, his tanned arms stretched along the span of the wooden boards. The earthy odors of the pen didn’t bother him. This was farming. This was his family’s livelihood. Maybe his brother thought he could make his own way in the world without turning in an honest day’s work, but Simon was a fool.

Joseph wished he knew where his brother was. He hadn’t heard from Simon since that day, two years ago, when he had ridden off in a galloping fury, irate that his request for money had been refused. That memory was like a rough-hewn board in Joseph’s mind; every time he recalled the episode, he felt like he ended up with splinters in his heart. It was easier to be angry at Simon than to be worried about him.

“You’re worse than an old woman,” he said to Michael.

“Why don’t you want a wife?”

Trust Michael to ask a question in such a way that it was probing and patient at the same time.

“When it was time for Isaac, son of Abraham, to have a wife, Abraham sent a servant to fetch one for him,” Michael went on.

“Yeah, well, my Pa is dead and I’m not sending any of the hands to fetch me a wife!” Joseph kept his eyes on his livestock, avoiding Michael’s all-too-perceptive gaze. Michael had a peculiar way of acting like the people in the Bible were folks he’d seen in town on one of his recent trips. He couldn’t see fit to leave them in the Bible where they belonged; no, he had to drag them off the page and introduce them to Joseph.

Ten piglets, chubby and noisy and likely to fetch top dollar at the market when their meat was ready for selling: that was what mattered. Not Michael’s fool notions about marriage.

“So I can be the servant,” Michael offered. “You’d say Susannah is a pretty woman, wouldn’t you?”

“What’s that got to do with this?” Joseph asked. In fact, Susannah was very pretty, in a homespun sort of way, with round cheeks and fair hair and a soft way of talking. She was a fine cook, too, as Joseph knew from the frequent invitations he had to join the Everetts at their Sunday table. The trouble with dining at the Everetts wasn’t the food; It was the way they talked about church as they ate. Joseph didn’t go to church. Had no intention of going to church. And knew full well that the Everetts, in their hospitable, coaxing way, wanted to see him in the pews of the Appleton South Baptist Church on Sunday morning.

“I’m trying to tell you that it’s a fair sight more agreeable to be looking at a pretty woman come morning than to be looking at a sow and her piglets,” Michael replied calmly.

Joseph didn’t even try to contain his sigh. “You never let up. Didn’t we just have this conversation two years ago?”

Michael didn’t deny this. He didn’t confirm it. He simply maintained his indomitable calm, leaning his arm upon the pen as he stood sideways, holding Joseph in his sights.

“I like looking at Luce,” Joseph spoke into the eloquent silence of his foreman. “She’s a fine-looking sow. She breeds two litters of piglets every year. There’s meat for selling and meat for eating.”

Still, Michael said nothing. Just continued standing there, with that waiting expression on his face.

“I don’t see you objecting to a flitch of bacon come slaughtering time!”

“And I don’t regret my marriage,” was Michael’s equable reply.

Joseph’s face creased in irritation. “What’s bacon got to do with marriage?” he snapped.