Chapter One

Samuel Crowder’s Home for Foundling Boys, Missouri—1852

Another door slammed, echoing all through the wood-framed house. Rylan Crowder winced internally at the sound but schooled his features into a carefully blank mask of indifference. The other children in the orphanage pressed closer to him like goslings hiding behind a mama goose.

“Don’t fret,” he heard himself say. “It’ll be fine.” The words came automatically, and he didn’t entirely believe them himself, but he wanted to comfort the younger boys. He ran his fingers through his dark hair, a nervous habit. Still, he took his status as the oldest at the orphanage seriously.

Men in boots stomped throughout the orphanage, tracking dirt and who-knew-what-else all through the halls. Rylan balked at the disrespect but kept his anger to himself. His biggest concern was making sure the youngsters at Samuel Crowder’s Home for Foundling Boys were tended to.

“If you’d just tell me what it was that you fine gentlemen are searching for, I’d be happy to tender any assistance,” Pa Crowder said. He had a deep voice that he kept carefully in check, always speaking in the softest of tones.

The plain wooden door to the dining room swung open on its hinges so hard that it struck the wall behind it with a loud crack, making everyone within jump. Rylan glared at the man in the doorway, who looked over the boys with a critical eye. Pa Crowder, a great big bear of a man who looked like he’d been stuffed into his trousers and weskit, loomed behind him.

The man, who sported a fine suit and a neatly waxed mustache, began to slowly circulate the dining room, his gaze roving over the plain stone hearth and the dark green oilcloth on the large table. The man paused in front of a cupboard housing their plain ceramic tableware and boldly ran a finger over one of the plates.

Elsewhere in the house, the men who’d come with him could still be heard stomping about, opening and closing drawers and cupboards.

“You’ve got no right—” Rylan started to say, but Pa Crowder halted him with a raised hand.

“Now Rylan, this feller is a guest in our home,” Mr. Crowder said softly. “It’s our duty to show him hospitality.”

“A guest?” Rylan repeated flatly.

“Not just any guest,” Pa Crowder continued, jamming his thumbs into his waistband. “This here is the mayor, Mr. Suttler, and he’s come to check on you boys. He’s a real gentleman, so I expect you’ll all treat him accordingly.”

The words “guest” and “gentleman” worked some kind of charm. The boys crowded around Rylan shot curious glances at the stranger. As if it were a carefully coordinated dance, the boys all began to move around the dining room. Two worked to stir the embers in the iron stove, another quickly wiped down the already spotless table, and a few others darted over to the cabinet and began pulling down plates and a full coffee service.

Rylan remained motionless, watching all of this happen around him. The mayor, too, seemed rooted to the spot, his momentum somewhat stalled by the sudden activity. The table was quickly set, and the boys took up their respective posts off to the side, hands folded politely in front of them.

It was only then that Rylan shook himself to movement, motioning to the mayor and gently pulling a chair out. “Please sir,” he said in an even voice that belied nothing of his anxiety, “would you care to sit and have some refreshment?”

From the corner of his eye, Rylan could see Pa Crowder lift his head proudly at his good manners. For his part, Mayor Suttler seemed a bit befuddled, caught off guard by this civil request. He sat gingerly on the simple wooden chair, perching on the very edge.

At eighteen, Rylan had the privilege of serving the mayor. He poured the coffee and offered up a plate of small biscuits with dried currants baked into them that had been fetched from the larder. The mayor looked down at them a little suspiciously before selecting one, touching it as little as possible between his forefinger and thumb.

“I’ll level with you, Crowder,” he said. “I’ve heard reports that your foundling house is overcrowded. Moreover, it’s been heard around town that you’re running some kind of criminal training school here.”

“But that’s a lie!” Rylan interjected.

“Peace, son,” Crowder said. “While I apologize for his outburst, I must agree with the sentiment. Not one of my boys would stoop that low.”

“All the same,” the mayor said, “the accusation has been made. There’s been a plague of pickpocketing around town, and when there’s a plague, it’s always best to root out”—he paused, his eyes flicking to the boys—“vermin.”

Rylan’s hands balled into fists, but a glance from Pa Crowder had him checking his temper.

“It’s such a shame to think of what these poor boys have been through, and now to have such accusations levied against them,” Pa Crowder sighed. “You and your men have my full blessing to search the premises. Me and my boys will wait right here. Is this satisfactory?”

Mr. Suttler, clearly not expecting such cooperation, nodded. “That will do. Mr. Clive and Mr. Stowe will finish their search in short order, I’m sure.”

Two men that Rylan recognized from town appeared in the doorway to the dining room. They both wore dark trousers and shirts, and their expressions were about as intimidating as the six-shooters slung snuggly about their waists. Rylan recognized them from town. Mr. Clive shook his head, which made the mayor frown. The mayor rose and joined them in their search.

Rylan could hear them moving through the house, the mayor trailing after them, the sounds of door being opened, chests being rifled through, beds slid across the floor following.

One of the younger boys, his fingers in his mouth, wrapped an arm around Rylan’s leg. Absentmindedly, Rylan put a hand on the boy’s straw-colored hair. Pa Crowder, for his part, took a seat at the table and leaned back, packing his pipe as if he hadn’t a care in the world. His demeanor seemed to calm the younger boys, and Rylan couldn’t help but feel a bit envious of his confidence.

“Oughtn’t we do something?” Rylan whispered.

Pa Crowder’s eyes flicked to Rylan, and he smiled around the stem of his pipe. By habit, Rylan reached into the stove and withdrew a burning twig and passed it over.

Pa Crowder reached over and carefully grabbed the twig in his large hand. “Ah, thank you, my boy. We needn’t be afraid. Remember, fear is the absence of faith.”

Rylan nodded, pacified for the moment.

The mayor returned, his face pinched in irritation. “Well, it seems that at least some of the accusations were false, Mr. Crowder,” he said in clipped tones. “We’ve gone through every room and can find no evidence of misdeeds.”

Pa Crowder’s weathered face lifted in a smile. “I’m almost sorry that you’ve wasted so much of your valuable time.”

“Rylan,” the boy wrapped around Rylan’s leg whispered up to him. “They went in every room?”

“Seems so,” Rylan replied softly. He could feel the boy stiffen.

“They know where my lemon drops are hidden! If John finds out, he’ll eat them straight away!” And with all the urgency a young boy could muster regarding a precious trove of sweets, the lad untangled himself from Rylan and darted for the door.

“Simon, no!” Rylan called after him, but his long legs got tangled up in the chairs.

No sooner had little Simon gotten to the door than one of the mayor’s men filled the doorway. Simon skidded right into the man, who glared down at the scamp. Quick as a snake, he had the boy by the arm, nearly lifting him off his feet.

“And where are you galloping off to?” he demanded. “You get back in there with the other miscreants.”

Simon, properly frightened, burst into fat tears that rolled down his cheeks.

That was about as much as Rylan was going to take. He covered the distance between the table and the doorway in two strides and found himself standing toe-to-toe with the stranger. “What manner of coward are you to scare a child like that? You’re nothing but a . . . a brutish oaf!”

The man stared down at Rylan, his jaw working for a moment as if he couldn’t decide how to respond to such an insult. Judging by the look of him, Rylan suspected that he’d been called plenty worse in his life, but even in the throes of his temper, Rylan didn’t want to disappoint Pa Crowder.

Slowly, the man let Simon go, who slipped behind Rylan. “Boy,” the stranger grated, “you best learn some manners and learn ‘em quick. Go back to your little comrades before you git yerself into real trouble.”

Rylan continued to glare into the stranger’s face, nostrils flaring.

“Rylan,” Pa Crowder said softly. “Come now. Think of the example you’re setting for the younger boys.”

Reluctantly, Rylan took a couple steps back but folded his arms defensively over his chest. This was a convenient posture, as it meant that no one could see how his hands trembled from the confrontation.

“This is just it,” the mayor said. “You’ve far too many boys packed into your home. It can’t possibly be good for them. It breeds contempt, and who knows what angry young men might get up to.” His eyes flicked over to Rylan for emphasis.

Crowder took a long puff on his pipe, contemplating. His exterior was calm, placid even, but Rylan knew that the old bear was biding his time, trying to come up with a solution. Rylan held his tongue, but the mayor spoke to Rylan’s own motivations. He’d started to feel an odd restlessness, a sense that he had no idea what shape the rest of his life would take.

“It’s such a relief to see someone so esteemed having such a care for us,” Pa Crowder said slowly. “You’re right that I’ve more than a parcel of boys here just now, but I’m sure you’ll agree that’s more akin to a tragedy than something to be condemned over.” He took another puff of his pipe, the smoke curling up lazily in the space over the table. “After all, as a good Christian man yourself, I know that you’re familiar with what the good Lord says about caring for others.”

“I’m not here to criticize your efforts at providing these boys a home,” the mayor said, holding up his hands. “I’m simply suggesting that you can’t take them all on.”

“I might be inclined to agree with you, but it’s not like I can just ignore suffering when I see it. What with that bad harvest, and then the cholera took so many this winter—”

“I’m not completely without charity—”

“—and then that wagon train headed for California was attacked—”

“You’re missing the point entirely!”

Rylan closed his eyes and pulled in a deep breath. “I’ll go,” he blurted out. His words fell like an axe between the sharp words of the arguing men. “It’s the easiest solution. I go, and that’s another bed free.”

He opened his eyes and found everyone staring at him. He shifted from foot to foot, his eyes fixed on the table, not really seeing anyone around him. Rylan had suggested as much weeks ago, but Pa Crowder had cautioned him against leaving. After all, the orphanage was all that he’d ever known.

“Well, I suppose that would help,” the mayor allowed graciously. “When might you be departing, young man?”

“As soon as I can,” Rylan replied crisply. “Don’t worry. I won’t linger any longer than I have to.”

With that, he spun sharply on his heel and began the climb up the sturdy wooden stairs to his room. He bunked in an attic room with a slanted ceiling, all the way at the far end of the house. It was a big, grand lady of a house, one of the first built in town. It had belonged to Pa Crowder and his wife, who by all accounts was a gentle, compassionate woman of means. They’d opened their home up to orphaned boys when it became clear that they wouldn’t be having any children of their own.

She’d died some years ago, leaving Pa Crowder all on his lonesome. He kept a portrait of her hung in the hall, a woman with strong features and auburn hair with a streak of gray at the front. She watched over all the boys who came and went with a serene expression.

Rylan made his way to his room with a determined step, his jaw clenched and his eyes facing forward. With mechanical motions, he pulled out a rough haversack and began stuffing clothing into it. He heard muffled sounds from downstairs as the mayor and his lackeys departed.

The floor creaked behind him.

“You’ll wrinkle your shirts like that,” Pa Crowder said. Rylan’s hands slowed for a moment. He turned sharply toward his chest of drawers and continued whipping clothing out onto the narrow bed.

Wordlessly, Pa Crowder began picking up the shirts and rolling them tightly, gently placing them into the haversack. “You don’t have to go,” he said softly.

Rylan’s hands stilled again then resumed folding a pair of duck canvas trousers. “The mayor seems to think differently,” he replied crisply. “Besides, I won’t have you or the young’uns getting into trouble.”

“Don’t worry about him,” Crowder said. “He always gets worked into a lather the year of an election.” He picked up the trousers that Rylan had haphazardly folded and rolled them as he had done the shirts. “I . . . I’d been harboring a hope that you might stay on, take over the place one day.”

Pa Crowder’s words pierced through the haze of Rylan’s temper. He stopped and turned to face Pa Crowder, who sat on the edge of the bed. He ran a hand over the quilt that was pulled tightly over the mattress. “Eugenia made this quilt,” he commented, his voice wistful. “She loved all of our boys, every single one that came through our door.”

He looked up at Rylan and smiled sadly. “I suppose I’ll never get used to losing any of you to the wider world. I know it’s the way of things, and it’s only natural. But Lord help me, I fret so about each and every one of you.”

Rylan swallowed around the lump that had sprung up in his throat. “You . . . you’re the best pa a fella could ask for. I just can’t stay here,” he said, his voice a little strangled.

“I know,” Pa Crowder agreed. “A young man has to find his own way in the world, and you’ve always been one to spunk up. I suppose I might’ve kept you a bit too sheltered.” He paused and reached over to the drawers to pull out a stack of handkerchiefs. “A man can never have too many of these.”

“I remember,” Rylan said.

“Where do you think you’ll be pointing your feet?”

“West,” Rylan blurted, the idea forming as he said the words. “I’ve always wanted to head out west, and I hear there’s still plenty of space out there.”

Pa Crowder nodded thoughtfully. “Yes,” he said, “you’ll find yourself sure enough under all that sky. Long way from polite company, though.”

Rylan huffed out a laugh. “I’m not sure I’m cut out for polite company. You did your best, but I just don’t think I’ll ever be a proper gentleman.”

“You already are,” Pa Crowder replied sincerely. “You should find a trail boss to link up with. It’s a good way to learn more about the place you’re going. St. Joseph is the trailhead for the Oregon Trail.”

“Missouri?” Rylan blinked for a moment, not having actually considered the real distances involved. “That’s a ride out, no mistake.”

A corner of Pa Crowder’s mouth pulled up. “It is, though I suppose no farther than Oregon, or California even.”

Rylan busied himself with packing again. “I’d best get going then,” he said. “I’ve heard they don’t like setting out too late in the year.”

Pa Crowder slapped his knees and stood. “Best you take this then so you shan’t be late again.” He held out his hand to Rylan, and resting on his palm was his silver pocket watch, the chain dangling.

Rylan stared down at the watch. “I couldn’t—”

“You could,” Pa Crowder replied calmly. He took Rylan’s wrist and placed it in his hand. “You’re the closest thing I’ve ever had to a son—you are my son—and it’s my right. It’ll remind you of what’s important.”

Rylan closed his fist around the watch, nodding, not trusting himself to speak. Pa Crowder clapped him on the back. “Come on,” he said. “I think we’ve got some salted pork and some dried peaches we can send off with you, too.”

Chapter Two

St. Joseph, Missouri—The Next Day

Rylan placed a steadying hand on his horse, a gray gelding that Pa Crowder had sent him off with. The horse shied and danced sideways a little as the steam engine hissed and spat like some great dragon awoken from its slumber. It sent up white clouds of steam into the clear blue sky, the sun already baking the Missouri plain.

“Easy now, Smokey,” he murmured, tensing his right leg to counteract the horse’s movement. All the while, he kept his eyes on the small herd of cattle that were being ushered up onto the waiting train cars. The beasts lowed and jostled one another, and it was Rylan’s job to keep them moving up the wooden ramp.

He’d linked up with a band of cattle drovers from his hometown, and after some convincing from Pa Crowder, they’d agreed to take him up to St. Joseph in exchange for his helping to mind the herd. Rylan had always had a talent for horses, and the cattlemen had quickly learned to rely on him. They were a rough lot, but Rylan found that he was a mite uneasy about letting this last remnant of home go.

Even so, the cattle were eventually loaded, and the cattlemen tipped their hats and bid him farewell. A strange thrill ran through Rylan, twisting his stomach up a little. He’d never been so completely on his own, least not that he could remember. He would have to live on his own wits and grits now, as the saying went.

He turned Smokey back toward the center of St. Joe’s. He hadn’t had much time to take in the city before when he’d first arrived, as he’d been too preoccupied with the herd of cattle. Now, however, his eyes and ears took in the bustling town.

While it wasn’t a large city, not like the ones he’d heard about back east, it was still larger than what he was used to. People scurried in every direction, all of them in a hurry. A knife grinder was hard at work on one street corner, a pair of chatting housewives waiting as he worked. A rat catcher moved among the crowd, his trophies strung from a pole that he carried over his head. The sounds and chaos made Rylan want to wince, but he steeled himself against the impulse. He’d never seen so many people in one place before.

“Horses! Horses bought and sold here!” a boy of no more than ten cried out, standing in front of the livery. He flagged down passing riders, shouting openly to them. Rylan passed him on by but couldn’t help but feel a pang as he thought of those he’d left behind.

One street had been nearly blocked off by Conestoga wagons pulled up on either side. One was unloading cargo into a dry goods store. Another had a team of men loading it with sacks of feed. Rylan urged his horse through the narrow gap, taking the reins in both hands to hold Smokey steady.

Once through, the city began to opened up. Covered wagons, buckboards, drawn vehicles of every kind were parked. Rylan couldn’t help but think that they looked like a herd of some kind of animals. Between them, cooking fires crackled and smoldered, the smell of griddle cakes and bacon rising. Children darted in between them, generally getting underfoot and squealing as they played.

Rylan pulled up, surveying the scene. He caught the attention of one man who was busy chopping wood. “Begging your pardon,” he began, “could you give me direction?”

The man straightened, his red face making his flax-colored hair stand out even more. “Va? Vad behöver dig?”

“Uh . . . I don’t, uh, understand,” Rylan said. “I’m looking for Harlan Briggs? Do you know him?”

The man’s face lit up. “Herr Briggs? Ja, hon är där bota,” he said, pointing.

“Right, thank you,” Rylan said, and headed the direction the man had indicated.

He threaded his way carefully through the encampment and came across a group of men hitching mules to wagons in pairs. Rylan picked out the leader almost instantly: a slightly older man who wore a beige hat pushed back on his forehead. He was busy ferrying sacks of grain to a parked wagon.

Rylan dismounted and led Smokey over to the man, falling into step with him. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, falling back on the genteel manners that Pa Crowder had drilled into him. “Might you be Mr. Briggs?”

The man turned to face Rylan. From down on the ground, Rylan could see he was a half-head shorter than himself but built like a brick wall. His salt-and-pepper mustache and sideburns did their best to obscure his features, but there was no hiding those sharp green eyes. They snapped here and there, as if determined to take in everything that was happening everywhere all at once.

“I’m Briggs,” the man confirmed, his voice low and gravelly.

“Rylan Crowder,” Rylan replied, offering his hand. The man took Rylan’s hand in his leathery one and shook it briskly. “I’ve heard that you’re a trial guide out to Oregon?”