Prologue

Silver Creek, Texas, 1863

Sweat gathered on Maggie’s forehead as she reached up to pin her mother’s white blouse to the clothesline. The blistering morning heat would make the clothes dry faster, but it sure made the job more unpleasant. Her reddish-brown hair was tied in a braid hanging down her back, but it was starting to come loose. She took a moment to tuck away any sweaty, loose strands and brushed her hands clean on her blouse.

Her mind started to wander to the cattle drive that would be happening in a week’s time and whether her father would allow her to join again. It was something he was always very hesitant about, even though she had shown many times that she could herd with the best of them.

Maggie took a moment to breathe in the beauty of the morning. The sky above was pale and bright, and life ticked along on the ranch peacefully. Out in the distance, the field that housed the cattle was abuzz with life, and the cowboys herding and delivering materials to build a new fence looked as small as insects from this distance.

A shrill scream rang out in the morning heat, and the wooden pegs between Maggie’s teeth clattered to the dirt.

She dropped the damp undershirt she’d been holding and ran toward the back door of their house.

The scream was joined by gunshots, followed by another blood-chilling shriek. She’d never heard a cry of such pain, but it sounded horrifically familiar somehow…

Luckily, it wasn’t far from the house, and she always insisted on wearing trousers when doing busywork. Her mother had never approved of it, but it made it easier to run.

A sense of dread chilled her whole body, and she tried to ignore the flashes of potential tragedy that ran through her mind. Something about those screams had just felt wrong.

Before she could get to the back door, it was wrenched open, and Ben, her fourteen-year-old brother, stumbled out. He was whiter than the sheets she’d just hung, and his blue eyes were as wide as they could be.

In so many ways, he was the same boy she’d said good morning to an hour earlier. He was dressed in the same white shirt and work trousers with his suspenders over his shoulders. The only difference was his face, which was so pale and painted with fear and pain.

Maggie stopped in her tracks, her heart pounding painfully in her chest. Ben’s eyes met hers, and she looked down slowly to see him clutching at his white cotton shirt.

A flower of red gathered around his clasped hands, and he started to mouth something as he looked at her desperately.

“Ben…” she said, her voice practically a whisper.

He dropped down to his knees and into the dirt, and Maggie dropped down to cradle his head. His chest was heaving, and Maggie stroked her hand through his short hair, which was the same color as her own. Ben’s freckled face grew paler by the second, and his eyes were locked on hers.

“Maggie,” he said in a raspy voice. “They attacked… So fast… Me and Pa, we tried to protect Ma and the girls, but—”

“Shhh,” Maggie hushed softly, stroking his face. “I know you did. You were so brave, so very brave,” she said.

She barely had time to process what had happened. Frantic yells from the front of the house, and the smoke was thick in the air. Even through the commotion, she heard her father’s voice roaring out. It was coming from the front yard, and it was clear that there was a group of people out there, judging from the unusual voices and laughter echoing through the house.

“You leave them alone, you hear? You’ve got me, now leave them be, or—”

An icy laugh rang in the air.

As much as it pained her to do so, she gently laid Ben’s head down in the dirt, closed his eyes, and leaned down to kiss him on his forehead. She gave him a final look and ran into the cool interior of the house.

Her mother was in the kitchen with her nine-year-old twin sisters, Grace and Emma. The two girls looked so alike that it was a source of many running jokes in their house. Her mother often claimed even she couldn’t tell them apart, but Maggie knew she was joking. Now, the girls shared identical scared expressions on their pale faces, and their blue eyes were wide open. They were huddled by the potbelly stove near the window, and her mother had them pressed close to her. She was clutching a kitchen knife. It would be a small deterrent to a bad man with a gun, but having some form of control, even if it was an illusion, was better than nothing.

The twins and Ben took more after their father, but Maggie was her mother’s daughter. They had the same reddish-brown hair, even if her mother’s was starting to gray slightly. Her mother shared her dark eyes, eyes that her father said were impossible to lie to, eyes that “bored into your soul.”

Maggie stood in the kitchen doorway, and the need to protect these three precious people burned her like a fever. There was something very disturbing about seeing such terror in a setting that was usually so calm and normal. Normally, the kitchen was tastefully decorated with a homemade table and chairs, usually with a vase of fresh flowers adorning it.

She didn’t dwell on it that second, but she did notice that the table and chairs were missing. The smell of burning wood hung in the air, but she had to focus on her family. Her mother exhaled sharply and shook her head. Maggie found herself noticing small things, even in this hectic moment. Seeing her mother was like seeing herself in a mirror, and it created an uncomfortable out-of-body sensation for her. She’d always seen her mother as a rock that she could always rely on, but she looked so frail and scared crouched with the twins, and it intensified her need to save the situation.

“I don’t know what to do, Maggie,” her mother whispered.

Maggie felt a strange calmness, or perhaps a numbness, come over her.

In an instant, she took stock of what was happening around her. There were bad men out in the front yard with her father, that much was clear. They’d likely have overpowered him by now, so it wouldn’t be long until they came inside to finish the job.

The knife her mother was holding simply wouldn’t do when that moment arrived, but Maggie knew what would, and it was sitting upstairs.

“Ma, we have to get to your bedroom.”

“But Maggie, I—”

“Now, Mama!”

It was the first time she had ever raised her voice at her mother, but she just nodded and patted the backs of Grace and Emma.

“Okay, girls. We’re going to follow Maggie upstairs nice and calm, you hear?”

“But Mama,” whined Grace. “What about Pa and Ben?”

Her mother forced a smile.

“Oh, don’t you worry about him. He just has to sort things out with those men out there. And Ben ran out to get help, anyway, so I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”

Maggie’s heart sank. She’d have to break the news to her mother and sisters soon, but time was of the essence. For now, she merely nodded and ushered them out the door and into the entrance hall of the house, after making sure it was clear.

Maggie stole a glance at the front door, and she longed to run out to help her father, but that would be suicide without a gun to protect herself.

Instead, she turned right and went up the stairs. The stairs led to a landing with three doors, and she rustled them into her parents’ room. While it sounded like all the action was happening outside, she kept expecting to run into a big, hulking brute at every step. But it seemed like none of the men had breached the house.

Yet.

Her mother sat the twins on the bed, and Maggie walked over to her father’s Henry rifle, which was propped on a rack mounted to the wall. The rifle was a thing of beauty, and Maggie often liked to admire it when no one was in the room. Her mother thought it unbecoming of a lady to be so enamored with a gun, but she didn’t care. Even in that moment, the bronze receiver, polished to a fine sheen, drew her eye. After his wife and kids, the rifle was her father’s biggest pride and joy, and he took great care and joy to make sure it was always polished and ready to go.

She shook off these memories and pulled it off the rack. Her mother turned to face her, a look of horror on her face.

“Maggie Carter! Just what do you think you’re doing?” she cried in a shrill voice.

Maggie just had to smile. It was the kind of voice her mother would have used if Maggie had been caught stealing an extra biscuit from the table, and it felt so out of place in that situation.

“I have to help Pa,” she said coldly.

“You have to do no such thing, I won’t allow—”

Maggie shook her head and strode to the door.

“Ma, you stay in here with the twins, you hear me? I know how to use this,” she said, pointing her chin at the rifle in her hand.

Maggie had become quite a good shot in the last few years. With the Civil War ongoing, paranoia about northern invasions was constantly in the air, so most folks tried to put in more effort to learn how to use them.

Maggie had been a fast learner and had become quite a good shot under her father’s tutelage.

Her mother started to protest, but she shook her head again. It had been harder to convince her mother to allow it. She was the most peaceful, gentle person Maggie had ever known, and if it were up to her, no one would be allowed to wield a gun. That went doubly so for a lady. Even in this situation, seeing Maggie with a gun would be distressing, but something in her eyes betrayed her understanding that it was necessary.

“Trust me, Ma. Stay here with the girls and you’ll be okay, I promise.”

Her mother pursed her lips and then nodded briefly.

Maggie smiled at them and closed the door.

The rifle was loaded for emergencies with brand-new bronze cartridges, not the paper ones they were used to. She cocked the lever with a satisfying click as she bounded down the stairs.” She threw the front door open and was momentarily blinded by the sunlight. When she could see properly once more, a scene of horror greeted her eyes.

Her father was on his knees while a dark figure looked down at him from high atop his horse. There were six other men on horses, all of whom had rifles and red bandanas obscuring their faces. A bonfire roared dangerously close to the house. Familiar pieces of furniture blackened in the flames, and the memories attached to them faded into ash as well.

Her brain struggled to comprehend what was in front of her. The rifle shook in her hands.

Her father turned to look at her. But before she could act, a shot rang through the air, and her father slumped down into the dirt. Maggie wanted to scream, but the air was ripped from her lungs. Her heart pounded in her ears. Her vision swam in a haze as though she might pass out where she stood. First, Ben had died in her arms, and now her father… So much death in such a small amount of time.

Is this a nightmare? she wondered.

The shock was replaced by hatred and anger the likes of which she’d never felt before. It washed over her like an ocean wave, and the giddy nausea she’d felt moments before was replaced by a cold clarity.

She raised the rifle, aimed at the dark figure, and fired. The rifle slammed back into her shoulder from the force of the shot.

How different things would have been if that small lead bullet had flown just a few inches to the right to hit its target? How many lives would have been saved?

Instead, it flew past him and into the arm of one of the masked men behind him. The main wailed and fell from his horse into the dirt.

The dark figure — the monster who had just robbed her father of his life — turned to look at his would-be assailant. His head movements were slow and deliberate, like a snake preparing to strike, and his eyes were as dark as any reptile’s.

He had angular cheekbones and a thin, long face. His lips curled into a cruel smile, and in a swift movement, he hopped down from his horse and strode toward Maggie before she could fire another shot.

The man was dressed all in black, from his duster coat to his gambler’s hat. The only thing that stood out was the blood-red scarf around his neck. As he got closer, the fire reflected off his belt buckle, illuminating a symbol of a snake.

Maggie wanted to remember every detail about him.

His hand slapped across her face like a whip, and her torso spun around as the rifle flew from her hands. She landed in the dirt and immediately started to crawl to the rifle, but a shiny, dust-flecked black boot stomped down on it.

A strong, black-gloved hand grabbed her wrist and wrenched her to her feet.

“Not so fast, little lady,” he said.

His voice was smooth and cold, and it felt venomous in her ears.

He put his arm around her neck and lifted her a few inches from the ground. She flailed her arms and legs, but he just laughed as he dodged the hits.

“Well, ain’t you a feisty one!” he called out, cackling after he said it. “Tell you what, that house of yours is looking a little cold. Boys, why don’t you make it nice and warm for the pretty lady?”

“Whatever you say,” one of the men snarled.

Maggie’s eyes grew wide, and she shook her head frantically.

She tried to plead with the man, but his arm made the words come out in a wheeze.

The men walked over the bonfire in front of the house and grabbed some flaming pieces of wood. She tried to struggle against his grip, but he held even tighter.

“Watch, girly,” he whispered in her ear. His voice made her feel sick to her stomach. “You shot my friend over there. Real bad, by the looks of it. This?”

He pointed at his men, throwing the flaming wood at the house, where the flames quickly ate up the porch and front wall.

“This is justice. It’s only fair, wouldn’t you say?”

Her body went weak, and everything became a blur as her mind could simply no longer take everything happening around her. There were screams from within the house, screams that would haunt her dreams forever.

Then, there was only darkness.

Chapter One

East Texas, Near the Louisiana Border, 1863

When he was a younger man, Jake Malone thought that a full day working on the ranch would make a man feel more tired than any other activity. Sitting in the canvas-covered military wagon, nestled between his older brother, Franklin, and his younger brother, Noah, he realized that it was possible to be even more exhausted than that.

It was slow going. They were part of a procession of five wagons of soldiers, along with two for supplies, and the mules were clearly exhausted as they pulled the wagons along a narrow forest path.

They were returning from an attack on a Union camp, which had been a tough fight, but they’d managed to pull through at the cost of some of their men and almost all of their energy and spirit.

Days before, Jake and his brothers heard of the heroic victory of the Confederates in Sabine Pass, and even though it was so recent, it was becoming the stuff of legends.

Jake’s army unit had been one of the many brought in from Northern Texas to help eradicate any Union presence in the area, as they would surely be out for retaliation.

The conflict had been quick and brutal, but they’d had the most powerful weapon of all: the element of surprise.

Bullets had been flying through the air like locusts, and Jake had to ignore the screams of pain and death rattles surrounding him as he and his fellow soldiers emerged from a burnt forest at the camp. When all that stood between life and death was a small metal ball that could burrow into you at every second, you needed to be in a constant state of alert.

The thing about victories is that they were short-lived. In the heat of the battle, nothing mattered other than winning. After the victory, it was just on to the next one, and that urgency was just a memory.

The tiredness seeped into his bones, and the heat of the wagon interior gave him a persistent headache. One of the wheels went over a rock, jolting the wagon and making Jake’s teeth click together.

“Son of a gun,” he grumbled.

Noah chuckled at his brother and scratched at his chin. “You gotta watch out for them bumps,” he said with a grin.

Jake grunted. “You gotta watch out for the back of my hand.”

“Easy now,” Franklin said warmly. “We ought to be celebrating. That was a hard-won victory.”

“I guess,” Noah replied.

Jake sat up and looked down at his dirty gray uniform, the same one his brothers wore.

He and his brothers were hardly the spitting image of each other, but it was clear to anyone with working eyes that they were kin. They all had the same wavy, light brown hair, and their mother constantly told them how they should consider themselves lucky to have such naturally fine hair, a compliment none of them cared for much. What young man wanted to be known for having pretty hair, after all?

Jake and Franklin even shared the same striking hazel-colored eyes, but this was one aspect in which Noah stood out, as he had the same rich brown eyes as his mother and sister. He remembered the days of the three of them picking apples in their father’s orchard as boys, teasing Noah for being too short to reach the taller branches. Now, they were on their way back from a battle that made some old generals happy, the same ones who were tucked away safely in war rooms halfway across the country. It made little sense to them, but who was asking?

“Even so,” he said after some introspection. “We need to be alert. You never know when an attack may come.”

Noah rolled his eyes and shifted in his seat. “You worry too much, Jake.”

A combination of the heat and the headache cloying at the inside of his skull made Jake’s temper wear thin. “Maybe you don’t worry enough! You’re always too laid-back,” he snapped.

“At least I know how to relax some,” Noah retorted.

“Hey, whoa now! Easy there, boys,” Franklin said. “He’s right, Noah. We do need to be mindful until we’re safe at home. But Jake,” he said, looking at him. “We probably can relax just a bit. The scout riding shotgun will alert us to any threats.”

“I guess so,” Jake mumbled.

Franklin was always the mediator of the siblings, and their grandmother often remarked that he should become a judge one day, something he always balked at. Franklin was going to be a rancher, like his father before him.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Noah said.

They fell into silence for a while, and Jake focused on the rocking of the wagon. It was coming on late noon, and there would surely be something waiting for them to eat when they made it back to camp.

No one ever felt hungry in the tense lead-up to a battle, but once the adrenaline had faded away, they were all left with rumbling bellies, and even the watery slop they were so often served sounded pretty appealing.

Jake suddenly thought of the beef stew with biscuits that his mom would make back home. He was sure there would be some waiting for them whenever they finally made it back.

Getting their draft notices had been quite a conflicting experience. Noah had been running around the house, inspecting the letter as if it were a sheet of gold. He couldn’t stop going on about how he was going to save Texas single-handedly, and he speculated on all the weapons they would get to use.

Jake had felt a nervous excitement as well, but they were tempered by Franklin and his father looking at the letters in a solemn silence. He hadn’t understood their reaction then, but he would in the years that followed.

They’d been taught every day in training that the only good enemy was a dead one, but Jake had found little satisfaction in seeing the results of their victories and the bodies of young men strewn around.

It started to permeate every soldier. None of them would ever admit it, but while there was a thrill to victory, it never felt completely right. Jake was proud of how far they had come, but he looked forward to getting home to reach the arms of his mother once more so he could stow his rifle and have some peace.

No one knew when this war would end, but they all dreamed of it happening soon so life could go back to how it used to be.

The warm memories of home made him smile, and he opened his mouth to remark about them to his brothers. But before the words could escape his lips, the sounds of shouting, gunshots, and whistles broke the silence that had previously hung heavy in the air.

“Ambush! It’s an ambush!” a voice called out frantically. “Fall back, you hear me? Fall back!”

The tiredness left Jake like a lightning bolt, and a look of steely determination came over his face. They should have had at least a few days before they were all fighting for their lives again, but war didn’t always afford that kind of luxury.

Even though he was younger than Franklin, Jake always managed to stay calm under stressful situations, and his brothers always deferred to him. He could see the whites of Noah’s eyes in the darkness of the wagon, and he felt a pang of pity for his younger brother. In that moment, Jake saw him as the same little boy who was scared of the dark when they shared a room as kids, not the cocky young man who swore he’d take on the world.

The wagon jerked to a stop, and gunfire punctuated the air like the explosions of fireworks. Their rifles were piled up at their feet between them and the soldiers opposite, each gun wrapped in a canvas cover.

The soldiers were looking around nervously, even though they couldn’t see out of the canvas covering the wagon. Some were whimpering, and Jake could hear others praying softly to themselves.

Their fear was thick in the wagon, and it emboldened Jake to take control of the situation.

“Everybody, grab a rifle!” he said clearly.