Chapter One

Fort Hall, Idaho—1841

For eleven-year-old Owen Foster, the outside world might as well have not existed while he had his nose buried in a book. The best sort of books, in his expert opinion, were adventure books, full of daring-do and plucky boys who got the best of ne’er-do-wells. He read as quickly as he could, his eyes roving over the pages, snatching a few minutes when he could.

Dimly, the sound of riders approached from outside the humble but sturdy clapboard ranch house. He glanced up long enough to ascertain that none of the riders were his father, as he had a golden palomino that flashed in the sunlight. There were raised voices, but Owen studiously ignored them. Whatever they wanted, Uncle Jim would see to it.

Determined to get through another page, Owen burrowed under the quilt his mother had made before he was born, pulling it over his head. He pushed a lock of brown hair out of his eyes. He was lost in the account of The Lost Boy, reliving the harrowing kidnapping across the Arkansas plains.

“Don’t you come and tell me any such fool thing!”

The shouting outside pulled Owen back to reality. He sat up, blinking. Uncle Jim wasn’t the sort to raise his voice usually, unless it was to bark at Owen to get his head out of the clouds and tend to the chickens or the horses. Slowly, he put his book down and let the quilt slip from his head, mussing his hair as it did so.

As quietly as he could, Owen slid out of his wood-framed bed, the straw mattress rustling beneath him. He placed his feet on the plain wooden floorboards carefully, having memorized where they creaked. The window was covered with waxed cloth that gave Owen’s small bedroom a warm yellow glow. Pa had promised that he’d bring back real glass windows one of these days when money allowed.

Kneeling in front of the window, Owen peeled back the window covering in a lower corner where it wasn’t nailed in. From his secret peephole, he could see most of the front porch.

Uncle Jim was talking with the men. Owen recognized one of them as the sheriff, his brown felt hat pushed back on his forehead. He had one foot propped up on the porch, and his face was troubled. The other two men had stayed mounted on their horses, which were all lathered up with sweat as if they’d galloped the whole way from Fort Hall.

Suddenly, Owen’s view was blocked by his uncle, who had passed right in front of the window. Owen gasped in surprise and ducked down, hoping he hadn’t been spotted. He glanced up at his window and could see his uncle’s silhouette on the cover.

“You can’t just come here and tell me this!” Uncle Jim cried. The boards creaked as he paced away from the window.

Taking a chance, Owen rose up on his knees and peered out of the window again. His uncle was behaving oddly, pacing back and forth in heavy, agitated steps. He sat on one of the chairs on the porch, burying his head in his hands. In the very next instant, he leapt up and began pacing again.

“Sheriff, you don’t know. You can’t know,” Uncle Jim said, his voice cracking.

“I know this is hard to hear, Jim, but you had to know this was a possibility,” the sheriff replied evenly. He was a point of stillness in contrast to Uncle Jim’s wild pacing. Only his eyes moved as he watched him move about. He’d removed his hat at some point and was holding it across his chest.

“Oh, Lord help me,” Uncle Jim groaned. A chair creaked as he sat heavily again. “Why did we ever come out here? There’s nothing but dirt and misery and death.”

The sheriff absorbed this for a moment. “Did you know the other fellows he was riding with?”

Jim was silent for a moment, then another, and Owen wondered if he’d heard the question. Owen’s heart was beating so loudly in his ears that he almost didn’t hear it when Uncle Jim answered.

“Yes,” he said, not raising his head. “They’d worked here for a couple years.”

“They have any family?”

“Matthew did,” Jim answered, his voice sounding hollow. “His ma and sister live on the other side of the fort in a cabin. Gabriel probably does, but they’re down in Tejas somewhere.”

“Alright,” the sheriff said, clapping his hat back on his head. “They’re transporting the bodies back by wagon. It’s a grisly sight, so I’ve told them to just head to the undertaker first thing.”

Uncle Jim groaned at that. He lifted his head, and Owen didn’t understand the expression on his face. His uncle had always been an unflappable man, even-tempered and practical, where his father had always been boisterous and energetic. Now, there was a wild look to Uncle Jim, his sandy-colored hair disheveled where he’d pulled at it, and his eyes wide and staring.

“Oh God, the boys,” he breathed. “What will I tell them? What am I to do with them now?” He stared at the sheriff as if he had the answers.

Owen’s guts twisted in on themselves. He didn’t fully understand what was happening, but he knew it was nothing good. It was like he was trying to make pieces of wood fit together, but the joints were cut wrong.

The sheriff stepped forward onto the porch properly, his hand raised as if he meant to put it on Jim’s shoulder. He hesitated, then touched him lightly before withdrawing it again awkwardly. “You’ve managed them thus far without incident,” he offered. “You’ll all be alright.”

“Will we?” Jim demanded suddenly. The sheriff said nothing, and Jim’s face hardened suddenly.

The silence stretched between them.

“Well,” the sheriff said finally, “I’d best be seeing to matters. We’ll do our best to catch these men, but…” His words hung in the air, full of unsaid understandings. “Seems every time we turn around, there’s some new gang sprouting up and wreaking havoc. Still, guess we have to keep on tryin’.” He withdrew, then paused. “We’ll be praying for you, all of you,” he added.

Uncle Jim said nothing to that. His eyes seemed distant and unfocused. The sheriff nodded to himself, then turned and mounted his horse.

Owen turned away from the window, a rushing sound in his ears. His eyes were hot, as if he was getting ready to cry, but he didn’t understand why. His throat hurt, too, like that time he’d taken sick last winter and could barely speak. He leaned back against the wall and pulled his knees up, feeling very alone. His brother, Michael, older than him by three years, was out tending to the few remaining cows that Pa hadn’t taken on the drive east.

In the span of a few breaths, everything fell into place for Owen. He knew what had happened. He’d heard Uncle Jim and Pa arguing about it. Uncle Jim had wanted Pa to wait until things had settled down around the territory, as there was some new gang preying on travelers. Pa had insisted that they couldn’t wait, that they needed to get the cattle east now to get the best price of the season. Uncle Jim had wanted Pa to hire a few more hands, men with guns, so that they could protect themselves.

Pa had laughed, as he always did, self-assured and easy. There’s no need for that. We can look after ourselves. Besides, I don’t think they’d trouble a few working men over some cattle. You fret too much in your old age, he’d chided Uncle Jim.

But now the sheriff had come, and Owen’s world was tilting. He was untethered, like he might just float away from the suddenness of it all.

Outside, the front door opened and closed again. There were the unmistakable sounds of his uncle’s footsteps coming down the hall. Owen pressed himself harder against the wall and wrapped his arms tighter around his knees. He put his forehead down, burying his face against his knees.

Uncle Jim knocked on Owen’s bedroom door, but Owen didn’t answer. If he just kept his head down, if he just stayed in the small space between the bed and the window, then it wouldn’t be real. As long as Uncle Jim didn’t tell him, then he still had a father, a good and brave man who always brought him and Michael hard candies from his trips to the big cities.

“Owen?” Uncle Jim called through the door. Owen squeezed his eyes shut, willing all of it away.

***

The next time Owen opened his eyes, it was like no time at all had passed. The days in between the sheriff’s visit and his pa’s funeral were a blur, like he’d been asleep the whole time. Now here they were, buttoned and pressed into their Sunday best. Owen pulled at the starched collar that was strangling him slowly.

He stood next to Michael, who had clenched his jaw and refused to cry, his dark head bowed so low his chin almost touched his chest. Owen did his best to follow his lead, fixing his eyes wide. He stared at the hole that had been dug under the oak tree on the hill behind their house. There was a fresh wooden cross staked into the ground a few feet away from a weather-worn one that read:

Marie, loved by Henry

1836

In the hole, a simple wooden coffin rested. It didn’t make sense to Owen. His brain couldn’t comprehend that his pa, with his strong arms and gentle hands, was in that box. It seemed too small to contain him, too small to hold his booming laugh and his love of apple pie.

Owen glanced up at Michael. His mouth was a tight line, but his nostrils flared as the preacher from the fort droned on. Owen knew he ought to be paying more attention, but everything felt so dim and distant. Instead, he kept staring down into the grave until it seemed like he might just pitch forward and land on top of the coffin.

He shot another glance at Michael and wanted to reach out and take his hand like he used to when he was little, but Michael kept his hands still. Owen jammed his hands into the pockets of his dark brown jacket.

“—a good man, and a good father,” the preacher intoned solemnly.

“Lies!” a familiar voice shouted.

The few people gathered around the grave all turned and stared open-mouthed at Uncle Jim. Owen almost didn’t recognize him at first. His hair was unruly and uncombed, and his suit was disheveled. His cravat was gone, his collar open and rumpled. He swayed oddly on his feet, his eyes red and staring.

“If he was such a good father, why isn’t he here?” he demanded. He stumbled up to the crowd, who parted for him, eager to get out of his way. “He’s so good. Everyone likes Henry,” Jim said, his words slurred. “Well, if he’s so good, why’s he gone? Why was he always gone? He was always leaving,” Jim continued. He jabbed a figure accusingly in the direction of the grave. “You… you always left. You never could settle, and now look where it’s got you. Head full of adventures your whole life, and that got you a head full of lead!”

There was a collective gasp from the mourners. Michael tensed up next to him. Michael took a step forward, and this time Owen did take him by the hand. Michael blinked down at Owen as if seeing him for the first time. Owen quickly shook his head. Michael might be older and bigger, but their Uncle Jim was like a bull, thick with muscle from years of hard work.

Uncle Jim glared around at the assembled again. His eyes landed on Owen and Michael. “Well?” he demanded. “Get done. It’s time we were heading home.” Jim continued to glare, his face an unrecognizable mask of anger and something deeper. He turned his back on the proceedings and began to stalk back toward the ranch house, stumbling occasionally.

The preacher took this as a cue to wrap the service up. Michael, too, didn’t wait to hear how it concluded. He turned and began to walk back toward home, his hands balled into tight fists. Owen glanced between him and the gravesite, shifting from foot to foot. At last, he hurried after Michael.

“Don’t dawdle,” Michael said without looking at Owen. “We’ve got chores today.”

“We can’t have even a day off?” Owen protested. “Pa’s funeral—”

“Horses still gotta eat,” Michael replied tersely. “Fences still need mending.”

“But I’m at the last chapter of The Lost Boy, and I wanted to finish it,” Owen wheedled.

Michael tensed up again, and he shot a look down at Owen. “There’s no time for that foolishness now. It’s time you grew up and stopped daydreaming.”

“I don’t see why,” Owen mumbled. He kicked at the dirt of the path that led to the front porch. Uncle Jim was standing there, staring out at the landscape. Clouds pressed in heavily overhead, making the whole world gray and colorless. “You can’t make me. Pa never stopped dreamin’ of something else!” Owen shouted at Michael’s back.

Without warning, and far quicker than one could have expected from a man of his size, Uncle Jim leapt from the porch, snatching up Owen’s arm and jerking him closer. Owen resisted, but it was like being caught in a bear trap. Jim yanked him closer, so close that Owen could see the individual blood vessels in Jim’s eyes, which were swollen and red.

“Don’t you talk like that,” Jim growled, his breath rank and sickly sweet with the smell of alcohol.

Owen wrinkled his nose.

“You want to be like your pa? Run off, leave your responsibilities behind, and for what? To go and get yourself killed, leaving all of us? Leaving me with… just leaving?” Jim demanded. “All there is out there on the range is Death, and he’ll snatch up anyone fool enough to enter his domain.”

“You’re wrong!” Owen shouted back, surprising everyone. He couldn’t have fathomed ever talking that way to his uncle before, but everything was different. The whole world felt off, wrong somehow. With a flash of temper, Owen brought his heel down on Jim’s boot, which made him yelp and release Owen.

“Come here, you jackanape!” Jim growled, lunging and grabbing for Owen.

Owen danced away out of reach, then turned and bolted for the barn. He ran right through it, startling the dairy cows and making them low in their stalls. He kept running, clear out the back, scrambling through the fence of the corral, and kept on going. His little arms pumped hard as he ran as fast as he could.

He ran and ran until the house had shrunk behind him, leaving all of the shouting and sadness and emptiness. He stopped at last when he reached the cherry tree, a gift from their father to their mother. He bent over, his hands on his knees as he pulled in one shaking breath after another. His forehead was damp with sweat, his brown hair sticking to it.

“Owen!” Michael called. He was running after Owen, calling his name. “What do you think you’re doing? Get back here!”

Owen screwed up his face, then turned and scrambled up the gnarled branches of the cherry tree. This was familiar territory. He and Michael had spent plenty of summer afternoons among the branches, eating cherries until their stomachs ached.

“What are you doing up there? Get down already!” Michael called up when he reached the trunk, panting.

“No!”

“Owen,” Michael began, a warning in his voice.

“You can’t make me! You want me, you’ll have to come and get me yourself!” Owen retorted. Michael looked up and swiped for Owen’s foot, which was dangling. Owen scrambled a few branches higher and stuck his tongue out defiantly.

Michael sighed and leaned his back against the trunk. He gazed back toward the house. Owen watched him, anger making tears spring to his eyes.

“You’ll have to come down eventually,” Michael sighed at last. “We all have to come back down to earth now.”

“I don’t want to,” Owen said stubbornly. He plopped himself down on a branch, making the green leaves rustle.

“It’s not about what you want,” Michael retorted. “We don’t have Pa anymore. You understand that? We’ve got to make this ranch work with just the three of us. We don’t have time for you to go gallivanting off on one of your adventures.”

Owen was only half-listening. He didn’t want to think about Pa, cold and silent in a hole in the ground. He focused instead on searching for any cherries that hadn’t been eaten yet or been snatched up by birds.

“And you need to leave Uncle Jim alone,” Michael continued. “He’s bad-tempered when he drinks, and… Well, he’s just drinkin’ a lot right now.”

“Sounds like that’s his problem,” Owen retorted. “I don’t see why I have to be different now.”

“You just do,” Michael replied, sounding tired.

Owen glanced down at him, studying his face from this new angle. He’d never realized before how much he looked like their uncle. He’d also never seen Michael look so tired.

“We have to do whatever he says, all the time,” Michael continued.

Owen didn’t say anything, which seemed to placate Michael. Owen craned his head back, looking up through the branches and leaves. A flash of ruby red among the green caught his eye, a cherry! It was the biggest one Owen had seen that year, maybe ever. He reached up for the branch above him, climbing higher than he’d ever dared.

“What are you… Owen, you can’t climb that high!” Michael cried up to him. “You’re going to get hurt, and then Uncle Jim will really be mad.”

Owen ignored Michael, which seemed to be a good policy that day. He ventured higher, the branches bending beneath his weight as they thinned. He stretched out his arm, reaching for the cherry. His fist closed around it, but the branch he’d hooked his other arm around gave way. Owen hung there for a moment, suspended in time, before he lost his footing and tumbled down.

He was sure that he hit every branch on the way down, knocking him this way and that as he fell. At last, there were no more branches, just a few dizzying moments of emptiness before he hit the ground.

“Oof!” he wheezed, the air knocked from him completely.

“Owen! Are you hurt? Say something!” Michael cried, grabbing onto him and hoisting him upward.

Owen responded by sucking in air for a minute, then grinning at Michael, who rolled his eyes and shoved him back down in the dirt.

“I told you that you were going to fall.” Michael stood and began to march back toward the house.

“It was worth it,” Owen murmured. In his hand, the cherry was shining like a jewel, undamaged. He stared up at the sky, the churning gray clouds, and he let himself imagine. After all, he still had a pa in his imagination, and the world was still simple and good.