Prologue

Stockley, Kansas, 1870

The length of the room seemed to stretch endlessly before her. She felt as though she was somewhere she’d never been before. A jumble of furnishings met her eye – the small clock on the mantel with its garish pink-and-green painted designs, the green velvet curtains, and the dark mahogany table.

Nothing familiar or recognizable asserted itself in her vision, although she knew full well where she was. She was standing in the small, clean room with dark furniture and white furnishings that had belonged to her grandmother. It had been her grandmother’s room until yesterday when she passed away.

Rebecca squeezed her eyes shut, her head feeling fuzzy, as though she walked through a fog. She hadn’t slept for the last two days, and she couldn’t remember eating a meal recently. The only thing that occupied her mind was what had just happened. Grandma – the center of her world, her only real parent – was no longer here.

The neat, pretty cottage where they lived was silent, the caring, familiar presence who had made it her home departed – after a brief illness – for a better place.

“Miss Tillman?” The attorney’s voice calling her intruded from a distance – it startled her, but it seemed kind. “I’ll go back to my office with the doctor. Would you like me to fetch someone to stay here with you for an hour or two?” He raised a brow, concernedly. He was a short, red-haired man about ten years older than Rebecca with compassion in his expression. He wore a dark coat and a high-necked shirt.

Rebecca blinked, shutting her brown eyes for a moment. She couldn’t think straight and she had to pause to gather the meaning of his sentence.

“No,” she replied after a moment, her voice tight. She looked down at the dress she wore – it was black, the skirt ink-dark where it touched her boot-toes. The color was as soulless as she felt. “Thank you, Mr. Stoughton, but I’ll be quite fine on my own.” She sounded small and unsure, even to her own ears.

The older man lifted a shoulder. “If you’re sure, miss,” he answered, worried. “If you need anything, Mrs. Tyndall will help. She told me so earlier when I saw her in the roadway.” Mrs. Tyndall was the next-door neighbor, and one Rebecca didn’t know well. She inclined her head.

“Thank you,” she repeated formally. She couldn’t speak outside of a list of polite responses, because everything else – her tears, her grief, her fear – were frozen solid in her mind, shock holding her in a state of rigid disbelief and weariness. “I would prefer to be on my own, though. I need time to think. I thank you again for all your help.” She gestured to where he’d taken the papers from Grandma’s desk, going through them for her. She felt so terribly tired. It was an effort just to stand up, to walk down the stairs to this room where the lawyer and the doctor had come to meet with her.

“It’s nothing, Miss Tillman,” Mr. Stoughton replied gently. “Please, if you need me, you are welcome to come to the office. You know where I am.” He gestured to the table, where she noticed a calling card. She swallowed hard.

“Yes. Thank you.” She looked down, confusion making her unable to think. All she wanted was to stay here, sitting alone with her grief. The world didn’t make sense anymore. Grandma had been her anchor, her safety. Like the big tree growing just by the gate, she had sheltered her and given her protection and care. Without her, the world felt dangerous, huge, and confusing; a place where, despite her nineteen years of age, Rebecca felt utterly lost.

“I trust you’ll call on me if you need any assistance,” Mr. Stoughton offered kindly. His voice was strong and sincere and it seemed to come from a distance. Rebecca nodded.

“Yes, thank you,” she replied softly. She was aware that her own voice was emotionless, cold as frost, but she couldn’t help it. She felt as though the snow had settled inside her, freezing her emotions.

Nothing made sense anymore.

She heard booted footsteps ringing on the dark wood floor and then the door shutting. The sounds came from another world, the one beyond her pain. She stood where she was, too tired even to wipe a strand of blonde hair from one eye where it fell from its tight bun on the top of her head.

I should cover my hair in mourning.

The gesture would have pleased her grandmother, who had always been pious. She didn’t want to think about her grandmother right now. Thoughts of her could shatter the ice inside and let out the screaming, racking pain of grief. She didn’t want to feel that right now. She didn’t want to feel anything at all.

She stood in the room for a while longer, knowing that if she stood too long, she wouldn’t move at all. She was tempted to simply forget about everything and just ignore the world around her. Everything, even eating, was too difficult right now, and, even when she drew her attention to it, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a proper meal.

Rebecca made herself walk out of the bedroom. Grandma had lost her child to a smallpox outbreak fourteen years ago – when Rebecca was just five. Both Rebecca’s parents had been taken by that sickness, and after it, Rebecca had been taken to stay with her.

Rebecca had contracted the illness too, but much more mildly, and she had survived, with only two small scars on her temple to show that she’d ever had it. If Grandma could face that loss – and she did, every day – then Rebecca could face the loss of her beloved grandmother, a dear, beautiful soul who had been another parent to her.

Grandma always told her that her faith gave her strength. She explained that it was bread for the hungry and strength for the weak. Rebecca shut her eyes, drawing on the deep faith that her grandmother had nurtured within her.

“Lord,” she prayed. “Give me strength. Grant me courage. I need so much help right now.”

Just asking made her feel better, as though some of that strength was flooding into her, charging her body with the will to move forward. She went through to the kitchen and opened the cupboard. A loaf of bread was there – one she’d baked for them both just a few days before. She didn’t want to remember that time. The bread was only bread, not the memories of days when Grandma still lived; of a world that made sense.

She reached for the jar of raspberry preserves and added that to her sandwich, making herself eat even though she didn’t feel the slightest stirring of appetite. The jam didn’t seem to taste like anything, though she knew it was delicious and sweet. The bread could have been old rags, so unappealing did it seem, but she made herself chew. It was important to eat, to keep up her strength.

A knock at the door made her jump. She stood, heart pounding. She didn’t expect visitors and the intrusion made her nervous. She breathed deeply, drawing on the sense of calm that her faith gave her, and went to open it.

“Good morning, Miss Tillman,” a man greeted her, his expression friendly. She recognized him as Mr. Brownlow, who lived just up the street. He was a friendly, balding man she guessed to be in his fifties, with a perpetual frown that made him seem worried, even when he was perfectly reposed. He had a good heart: He’d always been kind and had even helped her to collect her groceries from the trading store when she was looking after Grandma during her illness.

“Good morning, Mr. Brownlow,” she replied in a neat, clipped voice. “Can I help you?”

“Bless you, dear,” he responded warmly. “No. I just came with some mail. I thought I could help with that. If there’s anything else I can do, please tell me. I’d be more than happy to be of assistance – we both would,” he added, his expression softening. He indicated the cottage where he lived, just down the street.

“No, thank you, Mr. Brownlow,” Rebecca replied softly. “I’ll be all right,” she added. She could hear how unsure she was, her voice wavering. “Thank you for delivering this for me,” she added. She reached to take the mail.

“No trouble at all.”

He inclined his head politely, tongue running across his lips. He seemed nervous as if he wasn’t sure what to say in the circumstances – which she was sure he wasn’t since how could anyone know what to say? – and he hurried off.

Rebecca took the letters to the table, walking slowly as though she was half asleep. She didn’t want to read them, but it was something she could do; something to keep her thoughts locked to the present, not wandering in a world where grief lurked.

She slid her finger under the flap of the first letter, opening it.

It was an outstanding bill.

Rebecca swallowed hard. The attorney had already told her that there was very little of Grandma’s money left at the bank. She and her grandmother had always lived comfortably, but since neither of them had an income the money had steadily lessened and now there was only enough for a month of groceries, perhaps a fortnight more if she eked it out.

The thought was terrifying. Rebecca felt her throat tighten just thinking about it. She drew a breath to steady herself, pushing the idea away.

She opened the next letter. It was from the bank. She squinted at it, but it made very little sense to her. Legal letters were always hard to read, and right now, she didn’t have the strength to devote to understanding the hedging, rambling language.

I’ll take it to Mr. Stoughton.

She was grateful that she could. He had always been friendly. Grandma had teased her about the fact that he was attracted to her, but Rebecca couldn’t agree with that – he was a handsome fellow and she was sure he could have his pick of the beautiful ladies in town. She herself had a heart-shaped face, a slim nose, and her chief attraction was a pair of big dark eyes, framed with thick lashes – but she didn’t think she was outstandingly good-looking, no matter what Grandma suggested.

She pushed the thought away and opened the third letter. There was a letter from a neighbor – that would be meant for Grandma and so Rebecca put it aside. She didn’t want to read that now. She focused on the letter she’d just opened, which was from the bank. It made no sense to her and so she read it aloud, hoping that, by hearing it, she could make some sense out of it.

“…and in the event of non-payment, we regret to inform you that the estate is liable, and foreclosure will require the resale of the property, which represents the fixed assets of the debtor.”

She felt her brow crease with a frown. The words made sense, but the meaning didn’t seem clear at all. Grandma had borrowed money? We owe somebody money?

She frowned, reading over it again to see if she’d understood it correctly.

She read the letter once more, and then put it to one side. She shut her eyes, feeling the pain in her head expand and fill her vision, making it impossible to keep staring at the dark words on pale parchment in the indistinct candlelight.

She couldn’t deny the meaning to herself – obscure or not, what the words meant was clear to her. She knew that much.

“God,” she prayed aloud. “I know what this means. They are going to sell the house. Please, God, please grant me a solution. Let there be some way forward for me, please.”

She swallowed hard. Nothing made sense right now, but as she prayed, a sense of calm descended.

Even though she was terrified, even though the world was big and frightening, she knew that God was by her side.

She knew that, somehow, there would be a solution and that God would protect her and guide her to a safe shelter.

Chapter One

Stockley, Kansas, 1870

Rebecca sat down in the kitchen. Her feet ached and her back hurt, sending pulses of pain to her brain. She had tidied the house and baked all morning, and she had just completed a list of things she needed from the trading store for the rest of the week. The pantry was almost empty.

She ran a hand through her hair, her fingers twirling a lock behind her ear, a habit when she was tense. Some part of her knew that she was keeping busy because it was one way to distract herself from her sadness.

She leaned back in her chair, gathering her thoughts. She had spoken with the bank manager the previous day – two days after finding the letter mentioning debt – and even though he’d been very kind, he made it clear that there was nothing he could do.

“It’s not me… it’s the branch in Hillbridge,” she recalled him saying, his face sweaty with tension and the heat in the small, ill-situated office. “Any decision I make will affect them, of course, and, even though I’d love to just forget about the debt, it is rather large and I’m afraid I can’t…” he made a wide gesture, an expression of helplessness on his face.

“Of course.” Rebecca could hear how saddened she sounded. She had left the bank and walked straight home, where, once she’d sat to let the shock wear off, she’d fervently started praying.

God had sent her strength. She knew that all would work out well.

Deciding not to dwell on the conversation at the bank and situations in God’s hands any longer; she put the list into the shopping basket, slipped her arm through the wide woven handle, and then walked out to the trading store, which was sure to be full of customers since it was ten o’clock and a Monday morning.

Outside, the sunshine hit her like a blow – it was baking hot in Stockley, and the heat and sunshine reflected from the whitewashed walls of the houses and off the blindingly-bright cobbles. She squinted, her eyes taking a moment to adjust to the light as she walked along the neat, pretty road, her shoes echoing loudly on the cobbles. She could see painted shutters and roses growing around the cottages, and smell the scent of grass, baking in the heat.

Rebecca was wearing a bonnet and shawl. The shawl was of black wool, matching the black worsted gown she wore. She had the bonnet to keep the sun off her face – it had a wide brim and was black as well, with black ribbons for fastening.

She would be wearing black for a year, she had decided – her grandmother had been so close to her, more like a parent, and to honor her memory, she would wear mourning for the longest permissible time. It struck her as fitting, though she sensed Grandma would not necessarily have approved – pious as she was, Grandma believed the young should enjoy themselves.

Rebecca passed the Brownlows’ house, waving to Mrs. Brownlow who was on their porch. She felt her spirits lifting as she went down the street and passed the bakery, the church, and the drapers. The streets were populated, but not excessively so.

The town’s inhabitants were either working or enjoying the pleasant morning in their gardens or on their porches. Rebecca waved to some familiar faces as she passed the houses and felt the pain in her heart lessen a little as she was warmly wished well by so many who saw her.

When she got to the trading store, it was busy, as she’d anticipated. She stood at the door, at the back of a line of people waiting. She breathed in, smelling the familiar spicy, sawdust smell of the interior, feeling the comfort of something as consistent and unchanging as the store. It had been that way since she was a little girl. She never knew it to smell of anything else.

At the front desk, she was greeted by the store owner who offered his condolences for her loss. She greeted him back, feeling awkward. She hadn’t been in here since her grandmother passed away, and she could see him looking at her uncertainly, as though he wanted to say something more but didn’t know how to.

His uneasiness unsettled her. Rebecca felt the pang of loss hit her as though it was a fresh wound. She didn’t want to think about it. She had wanted to forget about the fact Grandma was gone, just for a moment, though she appreciated his caring. She looked over at the bottles that lined the space behind the wooden desk where he stood. They gleamed in the sunlight from the window, the glass thick and greenish, the contents diverse and interesting.

Once she’d ordered, he went about fetching what she needed, weighing out the items that she’d asked for, and parceling them into paper packets for her. She tucked the packets into her basket, as he passed them down. Shopping was difficult since she had no idea about her own finances.

She had no notion of what she’d be doing a few weeks from now when the bank sold her home. She had nowhere to go. Saving money had become a priority, and she was buying only what she needed to bake bread and keep herself alive right now. She felt herself rocking from side to side on her boots, a habit when she felt scared.

She paid for the purchases and carried the heavy basket out. When she was walking near the church, she stepped inside decisively, leaving her shopping just inside the doorway. Entering the church felt like entering a safe, protected space.

She knelt at the altar at the front. A painting depicting Christ was overhead and she gazed up at it, the calmness and the infinite compassion in his gaze transfixing her. His face was beautiful and so welcoming. She looked up at it, feeling the comfort of its familiar presence.

“Lord,” she prayed aloud, her voice tight with nerves. “Please. I am scared. I don’t know what to do. Please, fill me with courage. Help me to remember that I am never alone. You are always here for me, always guiding me, always protecting me. I pray that You guide my steps and hold me safe in Your love. Thank you, Lord. Amen.”

She bowed her head, eyes closed. She felt safer and stronger, and she let the feeling settle in her heart.

I don’t have to face this alone.

She had the knowledge that God was with her, that His hand sheltered her. No need was too small or too large for Him… He could help her with everything she needed.

She stood, feeling better and, dusting her skirt, she went to collect her basket and walked back out into the street.

The sunshine was bright, as before, but instead of feeling harsh and foreign, the world around her felt safe and supportive. Rebecca strolled back down the street, stopping to gaze at the flowers in Mrs. Bailey’s garden, and pausing to watch a flock of birds as they moved across the sky. She felt calmer, more connected to everything around her. Prayer did that. She knew she wasn’t alone and isolated anymore, but part of a vibrant universe that harmonized and reverberated with Divine love.

She slowed her steps as she walked down the high street, pausing again to look in the window of the draper’s store. Colorful fabrics were lined up there and, though she couldn’t purchase them right now, Rebecca admired the bright patterns and graceful weaves.

One day. Not now, but one day, I know I will be secure and cared for and able to purchase them if I wish.

It seemed a wild dream since she didn’t even know if she’d be living in a home in a fortnight.

I know it will be well.

She held onto the serenity of her prayer and walked on, knowing God had already answered it, and that soon His help would begin to reveal itself.

She stopped outside the stationer’s shop. The local newspaper was sold there, and in the window, there was a copy of some of the pages, pinned up so that people could see the headlines. She ignored those, her eyes drifting down the printed sheet to where the advertisements were.

She read on because she had wondered, idly, if perhaps there was a position on offer that she could take – she knew her letters and could reckon well and having spent time teaching the workhouse children, she might be able to take a job as a tutor. Her eye skimmed the page, and while there was no job for tutors, an advertisement caught her eye.

Ranch-owner seeks partner.

She felt her heart thump. She had heard of ranch owners and other men placing advertisements in the paper, searching for women to marry. She knew that some women wrote in reply and that, sometimes at least, matters went well for both people involved.

She swallowed hard. It was one answer to her problems – one that, a second before, she wouldn’t even have considered. It seemed almost beyond sanity to rush off and promise the rest of her life to someone she didn’t know, but she didn’t feel as though it would be too crazy of her, given the circumstances. She felt calm inside, the same calm she felt when she had returned from church, and she knew that this notion was part of God’s answer to her prayer.