Prologue

The Harvey Ranch, Laurel, Mississippi. February 1870

A light breeze blew across the prairie from the east, causing the tall grass to ripple as if it were made of water. Florence Harvey sat atop Scout, her bay mare, staring across the empty vastness of the land, but it did not make her feel alone. On the contrary, it made her feel free, and if God had gifted her wings like a bird, she would have taken flight and soared across the corn blue sky and through the fluffy cotton ball clouds on the horizon.

“Flo? Earth to Florence?”

Florence turned to her friend, Maude, who was staring at her with a slightly exasperated look on her face. Florence smiled. She and Maude had been friends since they were both knee-high to a grasshopper and they’d been through everything together.

“Sorry,” Florence apologized. “I was a million miles away. What were you saying?”

Maude rolled her eyes. “I was asking if you are ready to head back?”

They’d been out riding for a good two hours, but it was such a splendid afternoon that it seemed a pity to return home so soon.

“Just a little bit longer, please?” Florence begged.

Maude pressed her thin lips together and frowned slightly. Florence knew that horseback riding was not Maude’s favorite pastime. She’d rather be lying on a blanket in the shade, reading a book or practicing her needlework. In fact, for two best friends, Florence Harvey and Maude Gillets were like chalk and cheese.

Where Maude had fair hair as straight as a pin, Florence’s hair was the color of molasses, a mass of wild curly tendrils she had never learned to tame. Maude was pale and freckly and was seldom without her bonnet, while Florence was tanned and loved the feel of the sun on her skin.

Maude was short and slight while Florence was as tall as a man and lissome. Not only were they contrasting in their looks but also in their mannerisms and how they liked to spend their free time. To anyone who did not know Florence and Maude, they might think that they could never be friends with nothing in common, but that was what made their friendship so special—no one understood how it worked except for them.

“Please?” Florence repeated, pouting slightly.

“Fine,” Maude sighed. “But if I get saddle sores, I’m blaming you.”

Florence smiled at her and then tucked the heels of her boots into the mare’s sides to signal it was time to get moving again.

“Let’s go to the river,” Florence suggested suddenly. “I’ll race you!”

Without waiting for Maude to reply, Florence clicked her tongue twice, and pressed her legs into the horse’s sides, causing her to lope forward.

“Wait!” Maude cried after her, as Florence tore off into the distance.

Florence did not hear Maude, already too far away. As she leaned into her horse, the world around her blurred and she closed her eyes, taking in every second. She loved the rhythm of the horse’s hooves hitting the hard ground and how she could feel every muscle in the horse’s body tense and release.

She loved the rush of the wind in her ears and the way the horse’s mane licked at her chin, stinging her skin but not in a way that hurt. Riding like this was the closest Florence had ever come to flying, and it was without a doubt her most favorite feeling in the world.

As she approached the edge of the canyon overlooking the river, Florence brought her horse to a gentle halt. The race had caused her plait to come loose and now long, wild tendrils of hair fell down her back. Her summer blue eyes were bright with excitement and exhilaration from the ride and she was out of breath.

“Good girl,” Florence whispered, rubbing the horse’s neck with her hand as she admired the view. The water was sparking in the bright sunlight and the branches of the willow trees lining the banks swayed lazily in the breeze.

A few moments later, Maude arrived, looking flushed.

“Florence—” Maude started to complain.

Suddenly Florence heard deep voices shouting in the distance and she turned back to the river. As she did, a figure appeared across the river on the opposite side. He was on horseback and he wore a tawny-colored hat and a pale shirt rolled up over his elbows. Even from where Florence sat, she could see the muscles in his forearms as he held tightly to the reins.

A few moments later, another rider joined him and as they made their way down the steep canyon toward the water, a herd of cattle followed them, with a third rider coming up the rear. Suddenly the rider with the tawny hat looked up and caught Florence’s eye, holding her gaze for only a moment before he looked away.

Florence did not realize that she was holding her breath until she felt a tightness in her chest and she exhaled heavily.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said abruptly, gripping the reins again and steering her horse away from the canyon. Maude fell in beside her and the two friends started home together.

Neither Florence nor Maude spoke for a while and Florence’s mind was racing. She’d been stupid to forget. Samuel brought the cattle down to the river every day at the same time and she knew that. Yet something that day had caused her to forget.

Florence could feel Maude’s eyes on her. “You remembered, didn’t you?”

“I tried to warn you,” Maude said. “But you’d already sped off.”

Florence sighed and nodded. She did her best to avoid Samuel at every possible chance, but sometimes it was easier said than done.

“It’s just always worse at this time of year,” Florence complained. “With Valentine’s Day around the corner.”

Maude reached across and gently squeezed Florence’s wrist. “Why don’t we do something for Valentine’s Day this year? Perhaps we could reignite your love of love?”

Florence sighed and shook her head. She did not want to celebrate Valentine’s Day ever again.

“All right,” Maude agreed. “Then why don’t we send you-know-who a vinegar Valentine?”

Florence laughed as Maude wrinkled her pale eyebrows mischievously. “What on earth is a vinegar Valentine?”

“You haven’t heard of them? They are frightfully funny. Here.” Maude reached into her saddle bag and removed a dog-eared periodical, searching for the right page before handing it to Florence. “My aunt sent it to me from England.”

“Vinegar Valentines,” Florence read aloud. “The perfect way to tell someone that you don’t like them.”

Underneath the title were a series of short poems accompanied by caricatures, and as Florence read them, her eyes widened in shock and surprise as each seemed to be more wicked than the last.

“To My Valentine / ‘Tis a lemon that I hand you and bid you now ‘skidoo,’ Because I love another—there is no chance for you.”

“The kiss of the bottle is your heart’s delight,/ And fuddled you reel home to bed every night,/ What care you for damsels, no matter how fair!/ Apart from your liquor, you’ve no love to spare.”

“‘Pray do you ever mend your clothes/ Or comb your hair? Well, I suppose/ You’ve got no time, for people, say,/ You’re reading novels all the day.”

“So?” Maude asked. “Should we send him one?”

Florence smiled but shook her head and Maude looked disappointed.

“Not that he doesn’t deserve one,” Florence clarified. “But I don’t want Samuel to think that I think of him at all, not even long enough to send a vinegar valentine. I don’t want him to know that I still think about him.”

“But you do.”

“Yes, well, I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that.”

Florence handed Maude her periodical and she stuffed it back into her saddle bag.

“Come on,” Florence said. “Pa will be wondering where we’ve got to.”

It was nearing the middle of February and Florence would not be sad to say goodbye to winter and welcome the warmth of spring. Even now, the sun was already sinking below the tree line and the air had turned nippy. Yes, Florence was looking forward to the long summer days and balmy nights. It had felt like a very long winter indeed.

As they rode, her mind drifted to thoughts of Samuel, and while she had no plan to send him a vinegar valentine, she did wonder what she might say if she did. Maybe something along the lines of “you made me a promise but broke it in two/what is a yellow-bellied coward like you to do?/Pooh to you.”

Florence smiled to herself. It was silly and childish but she allowed herself this moment of indulgence.

It was almost sunset by the time they got back to the homestead. As Florence and Maude rode through the avenue of trees, the bare branches of the gigantic oak trees cast long shadows over them. By the time the farmhouse came into view, it was almost dark and Florence looked around for her father, but he was nowhere to be seen. She had half expected him to be waiting for them, his thick arms folded across his chest and his brow furrowed in concern. Yet not a soul was to be seen.

“Are you staying for dinner?” Florence asked.

Maude shook her head. “I’d better not. Ma will already be furious with me that I wasn’t back to help her get supper started.”

“Well, you’re late anyway, and Mrs. Lamb was making your favorite, goulash.”

Everyone knew that Mrs. Lamb made the best beef goulash in all of Laurel and perhaps even in the whole state of Mississippi.

Maude looked thoughtful. “All right,” she agreed. “You’ve twisted my arm.”

Florence grinned and after they had left the horses to their dinner in the stables, she and Maude made their way across the dark garden to the back door. As they walked, the air retained that wintery stillness and Florence thought how nice it would be to hear the crickets and the frogs once again.

“Pa?” Florence said, as she pushed the back door open. “Sorry we were so late…”

Her voice trailed off as she stared at her father’s unmoving body lying on the kitchen floor. Time seemed to stop for a moment as Florence stared at him, unable to speak, to move, to think. It was only when she felt Maude push past her that time started to move again.

“Pa?” Florence said, hurrying to his side. “Are you all right?”

But as Florence looked into his unblinking eyes, she knew that he would never answer her. She pressed her ear to his chest but there was nothing; his heart was quiet. She did not know how long he’d been lying there on the cold floor, but she hadn’t been there; bile rose from her stomach and burned her throat and she made it to the sink just in time. Grief and guilt poured out of her and by the time she looked up into the small window above the sink, she did not recognize the pale girl staring back at her.

Florence stared at her reflection for a moment, her heart racing. She wondered if she should go for help, but she could not think straight and as she willed her limbs to move, they ignored her and she stayed frozen to the spot.

Chapter One

The Harvey Ranch, Laurel, Mississippi. March 1870

The weeks following her father’s death were a strange time for Florence. She knew the ranch better than the back of her hand and yet she soon came to realize that she knew very little about how it was actually run. There had been many occasions when her father had tried to lure Florence into his study so they could pore over the accounts together, but she had always made some excuse. She did not want to be stuck inside doing sums all day when she could be outside, wrangling cattle and shearing sheep.

Yet now, faced with running the ranch on her own, Florence wished she had not been so against learning the business side of the place. She had always thought there would be more time with her father, another day, another month, another year, and yet their time had been cut short and now she was left on her own.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Maude asked.

Florence shook her head. They were seated at the breakfast table but she had not eaten much of the oatmeal Maude had placed in front of her. She did not have much of an appetite these days. Maude had been staying with her since that awful night and Florence was grateful for the company. The house seemed much too large and empty now for her to stay on her own.

“I’ll be fine,” Florence assured her. “Although I will be glad when all this is over and we can just get back to some kind of normalcy.”

“Did the lawyer say what this meeting was about?” Maude asked.

“Not really,” Florence shrugged. “Just that he’d found something in Pa’s will that needed to be discussed.

Maude nodded as she took a mouthful of oatmeal. It had been two weeks of paperwork and death taxes and estates and to tell the truth, Florence was sick of it all. Whatever issue the lawyer had found, she hoped it would be the last.

“Well, I’d better be going,” Florence said. “I’ll see you later?”

Maude nodded. “I’ll be here,” she promised.

Florence smiled gratefully at her friend before she retrieved her straw hat from the hook by the window and left the kitchen. She stepped out of the back door into a beautiful March morning. The sun was shining brightly and Florence stopped for a moment and turned her face toward the sky, enjoying the warmth on her skin. She’d hardly been able to enjoy the change of seasons with all that was going on and so she decided that instead of taking her horse, she would walk into town.

As Florence walked into town, she thought about the last time Maude had come to stay, just after Florence’s mother had died. It had been just after Florence’s thirteenth birthday and her mother had been ill for a while, but that did not make it any easier for the day she finally could not fight any more.

It had been a gray day; Florence could still remember thinking that the sky was weeping at their loss. She had never lost anyone before, let alone someone so important as a mother, and to her it felt as if her whole world had been turned upside down.

Her father and mother had been childhood sweethearts and if there was anyone who took the loss harder than Florence then it was him. Patrick Harvey had been a complete mess and it had been Maude who had arrived that same day on the doorstep with her small suitcase, stating she was there to stay, and it was her that had held them all together.

Although Maude herself had also only been thirteen, she was always an old soul, and she’d cooked and cleaned and helped out until Florence’s father had told her that it was all right to go home. Florence did not know what she would have done without Maude then and she did not know what she would do without her now.

***

Florence walked down the main street toward Mr. Holland’s office. As she did, she could not help but notice the displays in the windows. Two weeks ago, they’d been filled with chocolate hearts, lace cards, and paper roses, like every year in the weeks leading up to Valentine’s Day.

Florence could still remember how the beautiful windows used to be part of her Valentine’s Day traditions. She and her mother would walk by the windows, choosing their favorite card on display and imagining how many chocolates they could eat before they felt sick.

Even after her mother passed, Florence would still come into town every year and complete the tradition. Sometimes she would drag Maude along with her and other times she’d come alone. Yet the last two years, Florence had actively avoided town in the weeks leading up to Valentine’s Day. She did not wish to see the cards and chocolates and paper flowers, the very thought of them making her feel hollow.

Now, as she walked down the street, Valentine’s Day had been replaced by spring fabrics in the haberdashery, straw hats with velvet ribbons at the milliner’s shop, and the grocer’s window boasted baskets of fresh spring vegetables. Valentine’s had passed but it would come around again before Florence was ready for it. As she got near the end of the row of buildings, she crossed the street and walked up to the door of the lawyer’s office. Before her father’s passing, Florence had never set foot into the building, and yet now she’d visited more times than she cared to count.

She stepped through the door and removed her hat. An older woman with gray hair and a pair of gloss-rimmed spectacles hanging off her nose sat at a small desk in the corner of the room. She looked up and smiled at Florence.

“Good morning, Miss Harvey,” his secretary said. “They’re expecting you.”

“Thank you,” Florence said, frowning slightly at her use of the word they’re.

She walked past the secretary and down the hall toward Mr. Holland’s office and as she did, Florence realized that after all these visits, she still did not know the secretary’s name. Florence made a mental note to ask the next time she saw her.

Florence hesitated for a moment before she reached for the round brass doorknob. The metal was cool in her hand as she pushed the door open and as soon as she did, her jaw dropped in surprise. Seated across from Mr. Holland was none other than Samuel Baker.

“Welcome, Miss Harvey,” Mr. Holland said.

Samuel turned in his chair to look at her and Florence immediately dropped her gaze, avoiding eye contact. Her heart was pounding in her chest and her palms were suddenly sweaty. What was he doing here? Was this some kind of sick joke?

“Miss Harvey?” Mr. Holland said. “Are you all right?”