Prologue

Prescott, Arizona, 1879

“Scatter the feed, Tommy. Like this. If you drop it in a pile on the ground, the hens can’t share it.”

Nancy Miller Rhodes showed her son how to do it. She pressed his chubby hand into the bucket of cracked corn, folded his fingers into a small fist, and guided his arm in a wide swinging arc.

He smiled and got right on with the job. He was a very smiley child—always had been since he was old enough to look around. She watched him once to make sure he knew what to do before leaving him to feed the chickens on his own.

Tommy was nearly four years old, but he was also a quick study. She wanted to teach him independence during the precious moments when they were alone, when there was no one else around to judge or criticize her son.

She moved to the henhouse and began to collect eggs. Some were warm to the touch and fresher than fresh. Scrambled eggs on bread would be a nice supper for the two of them.

The two of them. If only that were true and permanent. This was her ranch; the land and house had been bought and paid for with the sweat of her dear departed daddy’s brow. He’d been a prospector, a man with a good eye for rooting out silver and copper deposits in the hills and mountains around Prescott.

Thomas Miller’s hardscrabble youth had been well spent. He’d established two working mines over the years, back when the Arizona territory was still mostly temporary storefronts and log cabins separated by long miles of dirt tracks.

Marriage, wife, and a daughter—Nancy—followed in due course. Her first memories were hugging her daddy goodbye and watching him ride the mule up the mountain pass to the mines, his water canisters and tin pans clanking together, the jingles fading as he moved further away.

He’d bought a small ranch so that Momma could sell chickens and eggs to the other miners. By the time her momma passed away, she was old enough to look after the livestock and the house on her own.

Tommy shuffled closer and rattled the empty bucket.

“You clever boy! Come and help me with these eggs.”

Daddy had always praised her every step of the way when she was a child, even if she burned the bread or accidentally let the spud water boil away.

“What matters is that you tried, Nan. Let’s see what we can do to salvage this.” That’s what he would always say. Sometimes, he would point to the singed wood sign hanging on the wall that read:

“Bless this Mess.”

The sign was still there, even though her daddy wasn’t.

Praise was still an important part of their daily life. It was her way of bolstering their spirits and keeping strong. Begin the day by praising the Lord, and letting words of encouragement lift them up for the rest of it.

Tommy pointed to her eyes. She squeezed them shut and then blinked away the tears.

“My eyes leak whenever I think of your grandpa, Tommy.” She put down the basket of eggs, brushed the straw off, and sat on the coop bench. “Would you like to hear the story of Lucky Tom Miller? You’re about old enough now, I reckon.”

Tommy smiled, which always meant yes.

“All right.” She patted her lap, taking the opportunity to hold her son tight and breathe in his milky scent. He was still such a baby; she wanted to keep him sweet and innocent for as long as she could.

“Your grandpa was called Lucky Tom Miller because he only had to look at a hill or rock for him to know if there was metal underground. He bought this land with all the copper and iron ore he sold. And then he bought the quarry too!”

She sighed. “That’s the funny thing about happy days, Tommy. You think they’re just ordinary until you have something bad to measure them up against. It was so nice to have my daddy home every day. We had big plans for the future, the two of us, knowing that my father didn’t have to head off into the hills every morning once he sold the mines and bought the quarry.”

Tommy lifted his little hand and patted her cheek. It was his way of saying so many things, but only she knew how to translate them.

“One day, a man came to ask a favor of your grandpa. His name was Monty Rhodes, and he was your daddy’s father. He kept striking out and coming up empty whenever he tried prospecting, so he begged Lucky Tom to help him.”

Nancy closed her eyes and breathed. The memory still hurt. Her son seemed to sense this and snuggled closer against her.

“My daddy rode the mule up into the hills to help out a neighbor, but he never rode home again. Monty Rhodes hadn’t constructed the mine tunnel properly. The pit props collapsed, and the two men were buried underneath ten tons of rubble.”

She paused to wipe away the tears, but Tommy tried to do it for her. She kissed him and held him tight. “You’re such an angel.”

Taking his hand, she stood up and walked outside. The hens were scratching around in the dirt, clucking contentedly. If only she could raise her son with nothing more than a hencoop and a handful of corn, life would be so simple.

Tommy pointed to the hills and tugged her skirt.

“Yes. That’s where Grandpa is buried.” Her son guessed how the story ended and would be satisfied with nothing less. “Monty Rhodes’s son, Calvin, came down from the mine to give me the news. He took me to the collapsed mine and helped me lay a plaque for both our fathers. He told me that Lucky Tom had lived long enough to shout his last wish from under the rubble… my daddy wished for Calvin to marry me…”

Of course, she’d clung to her father’s dying declaration as if it were gospel. “And a couple of years later, you came along, my little chickadee.” It was best that they didn’t dwell on the cold, hard fact that Calvin was her husband now.

It was bad enough that he was her darling Tommy’s father. The only sweet thing Calvin Rhodes had ever done for her since slipping the ring on her finger was to agree to name their son after her daddy.

Six years of marriage, and that was the only nice thing she could remember him doing for her.

She ruffled her son’s hair and cupped her hands around his precious face. “It’s just you and me, kiddo.”

But somehow, saying it didn’t make her son smile. It was important for a boy to have a daddy, but it stuck in her throat to lie and say that being with Calvin was better than no one at all—because it wasn’t. Goodness knew who would step up when Tommy grew older and wanted to learn how to hunt and plough, and all those other necessities of ranch life.

Calvin Rhodes had taught their son how to hide quickly and stay silent. That was all.

Tommy opened his mouth when she swung him around in a circle, but no sound of laughter came out. She noticed the sun was dipping in the west. The day was drawing to an end, and they both knew what that meant. The time for laughter and stories was over.

“Uh-oh, time for us to eat supper and get ourselves to bed, Tommy. But we’ve got to put the hens to bed first.” The pullets were housed in the barn, the cockerels were in the shed, and they had their own yards. Only the brood hens were put up in the coop.

Her son knew the routine back to front. He knew to hold the fence gate open while the flock of chickens was lured inside with more corn. Tommy shut it the moment the last chicken was inside the enclosure.

They watched the hens walk up the narrow gangway to the stilted coop, and then Nancy removed the ladder. “Those old coyotes can be as wily as a wolf in sheep’s clothing when they want to be, Tommy, but they won’t be able to reach our hens without a ladder.”

It was her own invention to put the hen coop on stilts and remove the access before bedtime. “I can’t tell you how deep I dug this fence before coming up with that idea, Tommy! But every time, those coyotes managed to tunnel under it.”

There was that little smile again, but this time he gave a small nod too. Tommy looked at her and moved his mouth. She held her breath and waited for his first word, but it never came.

“Never mind, my little chickadee. Let’s try again tomorrow.” She let him carry the basket as they headed back to the house.

Only after the eggs were eaten and Tommy was bathed did she allow herself to worry. It was always the same. It never changed. Calvin Rhodes would stumble through the door reeking of strong spirits and complaining about every little thing to which he chose to take offense.

There was a time when she would stand by the window and watch the road. The sound of hooves clopping closer, followed by low muttered curses as Calvin just about fell out of the saddle.

“Fed and watered. Washed and brushed. Now, let’s get you to bed, young lad.”

She sang lullabies—All the Pretty Little Horses, Lavender’s Blue, Golden Slumber—and waited for his eyes to flutter closed.

The lamp in the parlor was left burning to light the way home for the man who had asked her to marry him at the lowest point in her life and had then proceeded to make her life miserable.

There was no escape, not when lock, stock, and barrel of Lucky Tom Miller’s farm and quarry were now owned by Calvin.

She spent some time moving around the main house, cleaning and tidying. Household chores had a way of grounding her—something she was raised to do as part of her contribution to the family home. As long as she had Tommy with her, it would always feel like home.

The sound of hooves came from the road, but they weren’t clopping—they were galloping. And more than one horse was coming.

She went out to the porch. The riders were lawmen; she could tell from the way the stars on their vests flashed in the lamplight. The deputy stood back holding the reins while Burt Hackett, the sheriff, hitched his belt and came up the steps. He removed his hat and pressed it against his chest.

“Evening, Mrs. Rhodes. There ain’t no easy way of saying this, but I’ve known you since you were a babe in arms and so I’ll tell you straight. Mr. Rhodes passed away a few short hours ago.”

Her husband of the last six years was gone. For better or for worse. Strange how that statement applied to being a widow as well.

“May God rest his soul in peace. H—how…?” She stopped and shook her head. “Was it a drunken quarrel?”

Sheriff Hackett nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Gunfight outside the saloon. At least, that’s what I was told. There were no witnesses, but…”

But we all know what sort of man Calvin Rhodes was. Belligerent, ornery, and downright mean. That’s what the sheriff wanted to say.

The night silence was broken by the shrill drone of cicadas. She glanced back to where Tommy’s room was, and sighed.

“Thank you for coming all the way out here to tell me, Sheriff. Can I offer you gents something to drink before you head on back to town?”

Sheriff Hackett shook his head. “It’s best not, ma’am. We don’t enter the homes of single ladies. You never know whose tongues will wag about gentleman callers and whatnot.”

He stepped off the porch and put his hat back on. “I don’t like the thought of you living here on your own, Mrs. Rhodes. Have you got any folks or kin who can come stay with you?”

“Momma was an orphan, and Daddy came all the way over from New York. It’s just Tommy and me.”

“You might want to think about changing that.” He waited for the deputy to hand him the reins and got busy turning the horses homeward.

Nancy called after him. “We’ll come in tomorrow and sort out the funeral arrangements. Will I need a draft from the bank to pay for something like that? Or will the undertaker accept credit?”

There were so many thoughts shooting around her mind, but she must take care of her husband’s tombstone first.

Sheriff Hackett reined in his horse, but didn’t turn. He muttered something under his breath to the deputy, who replied gruffly, “Heck, Sheriff, I ain’t going to be the one to tell her.”

The sheriff gave a huff and dismounted. She was truly alarmed now. What could possibly be worse news than her husband dying?

“About that, Mrs. Rhodes. There’s something you ought to know…”

Chapter One

Ten months later…

Nancy took a deep breath and sighed. She did it every morning before going forth to face the day. Her daddy used to do the same thing. He would say, “Filling my lungs with the air God gave me sets me up for whatever the day will bring.”

And, as always, he was right.

“I lift my eyes to the hills, from where my help comes; my help comes from the Lord.” She said the prayer every morning. It was Tommy’s favorite Psalm. The Bible was one of the first things she packed the day they left Miller Farm forever.

They no longer lived at Miller Farm. The bank foreclosed and sold the land and the quarry to Copper Basin Mining Co. for cents on the dollar. Calvin had mismanaged the quarry and mortgaged the ranch up to the hilt. He’d left Tommy and her less than broke—he’d left them ruined.

Tommy pulled her skirt and pointed to the door.

“You want to go outside and see the hills for yourself?”

He gave a firm shake of his head. She thought for a moment before coming up with a better translation.

“You want to go check on the hens?” That one got a nod. “All right, Tommy, but we must dress warmly first.”

It was their first winter in the Mount Lien log cabin. Nancy was shocked by how bitterly cold it was and how hard it was to keep the cramped space heated. She helped the boy don a jacket, overcoat, boots, hat, and gloves, and then added a scarf for good measure.

“Grab the bucket of chicken feed, Tommy, and let’s go.”

Tommy was strong for his age and robust. He took after her daddy in that regard. It was a blessing. To have a sickly child under their newly straightened circumstances would’ve worried her to pieces.

Calling their home a log cabin was a generous description. It was actually an old shed that had once housed mining equipment, long abandoned and rundown. She’d patched up the roof and nailed planks over the cracks before moving in here, hauling lumber up the slope by tying it to the mule’s saddle to drag.

She’d had to sell a good many of her precious possessions to fix up and furnish the cabin, but it had a wood-burning stove and a bed. Somewhere to cook and somewhere to lay their heads at night.

It was hopeless thinking too far ahead, because it only made her fret. She was a twenty-five-year-old widow living hand to mouth with her son in the Granite Mountains. This wasn’t the future she had wanted for Tommy.

They’d set up a henhouse in a disused mine shaft only a few yards away from the log cabin. The tunnel went a good thirty yards into the hillside before the tracks dipped down. She’d shored up the back of the shaft with rubble so the tunnel provided the chickens with a perfect shelter now.

Tommy could walk inside, but she had to stoop under the pit props and crawl. This close to sunrise, it was still dark. She lifted the lantern for Tommy to see the crates of hay and nestling hens. What had started as a hobby for her was now what kept them alive.

One by one, he placed the eggs into the basket gently. She had to bite back a groan as she counted. Fewer than thirty eggs. Winter was always a lean season for laying, but she couldn’t allow the hens to get broody until spring was in the air.

“We’ll keep four for ourselves and sell the rest.”

Tommy nodded. He loved riding on the mule with her and heading into town. They kept a pair of goats for milk and cheese, but again, the winter months were lean pickings when it came to milking.

She glanced over to the horizon. There was a storm coming. If it brought rain, then a spring thaw would set in soon after. But if those clouds were bringing snow, they would probably have to face another month of winter.

Blowing on her fingers to warm them, she harnessed her daddy’s old mule and lifted Tommy onto the saddle.

“Ready?”

He always was. No complaints or cries. Only smiles. She’d hoped he would start talking with Calvin gone, but it seemed as if Tommy wanted her to keep on speaking for him a wee while longer.

They started off down the narrow path, the trail half-hidden by snowfall. The mule’s steady gait rocked them. It was peaceful out here, but it got lonesome.

Tommy leaned against her when the trail dipped. He clutched the basket of eggs in his hands like the precious cargo it was. They would swap the eggs at the store for chicken feed and vegetables.

The local merchant, Manuel Yrissari, would put a sack of sprouting spuds or wilting cabbage greens aside for them instead of throwing them out. Daisy the mule was happy foraging with the goats on the forested mountainside, but the chickens had to have their corn.

She took off a glove using her teeth and checked Tommy’s cheeks with her finger.

Warm enough.

Daisy’s steady gait stumbled when her hoof twisted on a rock hidden by the snow. Tommy gasped and let go of the basket. The eggs could’ve landed on the snow, only they didn’t. They landed on the rocks.

All they could do was stare as the yellow yolks leaked out. Nothing could be salvaged from the mess.

Sniffing away the cold, Nancy slid down to retrieve the basket. Tommy’s lower lip quivered, but she knew how to stop any crying in its tracks.

“Bless this mess, Tommy. Remember? Your grandpa, Lucky Tom Miller, would always say that what matters is that we tried. And then he would ask what we could do to salvage this mess.”

That only made Tommy more upset. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. She mounted Daisy and gave him a hug. “What can we do to salvage this? I know. When we say our prayers before sleeping tonight, let’s ask for chicken feed. You know that the Lord always provides.”

That cheered Tommy up considerably. When they got back to the cabin, he helped her brush the snow away from the lean-to where the goats and Daisy were stabled.

There was still soup in the pan by the stove and enough bread for breakfast the next day. But she must feed the chickens. If she didn’t have eggs to swap and sell, the hens would go hungry and stop laying, and then her carefully laid plans would be upended.

In her heart, she was still Lucky Tom’s daughter, and she absolutely refused for that to happen.

Sure, Mr. Yrissari would still give her the old vegetables, but it hurt her pride to ask for free food. Some of her best memories were riding the wagon into Prescott with her daddy to buy supplies at the storefront.

Checking to see if Tommy was asleep, she got up and started dressing in warm clothes… and britches. What she planned to do was not the sort of enterprise that was possible while wearing petticoats and a skirt.

She’d never shown it to her son, but there was another mine shaft on the other side of the hill.

When she was young, her daddy used to take her up the mountain. It was such an adventure to poke her head into hollowed out crags and under low-hanging precipices while looking for bats and long forgotten bones.

That’s how she’d learned about the shed on Mount Lien and the old mine shafts full of spiderwebs where prospectors had once delved for mineral ore. Why one prospector had burrowed down to the bedrock of a subterranean stream, she had no idea, but the two of them had managed to follow the tunnel and come out the other side.

“You don’t want to tell anyone about this place, Nan,” her father had said after looking around at the glittering quartz embedded in the boulder formation where the tunnel exited.

“Why, Daddy?” Even as a young child, she’d been full of questions about the workings of the world.

“This water is rich in minerals and as pure as snow. They’ll turn it into one of those fancy spas if anyone else finds out about it.”

Her daddy had always made sure to take only what he needed from the rocks and soil and then leave well alone. He’d told her that tunneling too much made the land unstable.

The tunnel they’d found that day was relatively close to the surface, but there was no need to worry about it collapsing because it was made from solid rock.

Nothing had been on the other side of the secret tunnel when she was a kid, but there sure was something there now. A ranch house. And not just any old ranch house. One with a well-stocked larder and too many sacks of corn in the barn for them to mind a few going missing every now and again. That was so much better than a spa.

This would be her third foray to the ranch since winter started.

She hated leaving Tommy, even for a short while, but there was nothing else to do. Chickens couldn’t scratch for seeds on the cold, hard ground. And if she wanted them to keep laying, there was only one alternative to begging—and that was stealing.

One day when I’m well off and comfy, Tommy and I will go back to the ranch house and repay them. But until then…

Her dreams ached with longing for all those things she’d taken for granted: home, livestock, and a plentiful larder. And it wasn’t as if she didn’t have a plan to lift Tommy and her out of poverty. The flock had increased substantially over the last three seasons. By the time next winter rolled around, she’d never have to steal again.

“This is the last time I do this.” Her breath misted in the cold night air and looked smoky under the lantern light. “And I promise to pay them back.”

There was another reason she was doing this: Otis Dobbs. Ugh. It disgusted her to think about him, but he was like one of those summer flies that took a liking to somebody’s scent and then buzzed around them all day.

He was Calvin’s cousin and an old schoolyard friend. She’d never paid much attention to either of those two boys until her daddy agreed to help Monty Rhodes. It was only after she was married that Calvin had told her about Otis’s heart breaking when she’d chosen him.

“I didn’t choose you,” she’d told her husband in her usual forthright way. “My daddy did.”

Calvin had said no more on the subject after that.

She and Tommy had traveled to town only last week. They’d bumped into Mrs. Collins outside the hay makers, who’d told her that Otis was asking after her. “He said your one year of mourning would be up soon, Nancy dear. Said that it was time you got yourself another husband.”

She’d urged Daisy the mule to trot back up the mountain real fast after hearing that!

No one knew where she lived with her son, and for that she was grateful. No one could come up Mount Lien without them sticking out like a sore thumb on the silent, frozen landscape, and only hard rock and trees clung to the mountain behind them.

Tommy didn’t notice that she was still wearing her outdoor clothes when she tucked him into bed and told him a Bible story. He would understand the need for her to find grain for the chickens, but her son was far too young to grasp the necessity of stealing it.

Kissing Tommy, she made sure he was fast asleep and the stove fire damped down before she headed out.

She knew the way to the tunnel in the dark, but it was nice to have the lantern with her all the same. The underground aquifer creaked as the ice solidified around her. It could be hours, days, or weeks before the spring floods made the passage too dangerous. The reminder of how dangerous this route could be was found in every water drip.

“Only one more sack of chicken feed, and then no more,” she promised herself.

The tunnel exited by a pile of boulders by the creek. She pinched out the lantern and trotted toward the barn. It was a treasure trove of all things chicken-related. Corn, barley, seed grains; this barn had it all.

As always, she found the lock hanging loose and the chain unconnected to the door handle.

She fingered the useless lock and smiled. “I mean, why even bother?” The ranch residents didn’t have guard dogs roaming outside or post a sentry. “Frankly, I’m surprised I’m the only thief here tonight.”

It was rather freeing being able to sneak around in her britches with the brown wool cap hiding her long hair. Hefting a whole sack of corn back up the tunnel with her was no joke, let alone having to worry about clinging skirt panels and petticoats.

She closed the barn door behind her and waited for her eyes to get used to the dark. The urgent need to get back to her son was dimmed for a short while as she enjoyed the comforting aroma of livestock feed and piles of hay in the loft.

This time next year, her chicken and egg business would be up and running. They’d have enough money to move back into town and find a little place of their own. She could attend church, and Tommy would go to Sunday School. There would be food and delicious, hot beverages—maybe even some coal for the fire in winter.

But first, the corn.

Using her fingers to feel the size of the kernels in the sack, she worked her way to the neat stacks in the corner. It was the perfect place for a rattler to hibernate, so she looked around the barn for a pitchfork to poke around there first.

There might be one in the corner propped up against the plow. She crept over and reached out to take it.

Strong arms grabbed her from behind. She tried to scream, but a large hand muffled her mouth before the sound could come out.