Prologue

Willow Creek, Mississippi

1883

The first shot created a deep echo between the buildings so that at first Mary thought it was thunder. The sound came from far down the street outside. It was followed quickly by a second, and then others, progressing up the street along with the hoofbeats of several horses—recklessly fast for the middle of town.

Mary Bright, the town’s librarian, was reshelving books at the time, a real chore since she was too short to reach the library’s upper shelves, but she was proud of the library’s cleanliness and order. Her father had built her a set of three steps that she could move around the room and she was up on the top step. The library was a single large room, painted a soft yellow, with shelves along the side walls.

Mary’s desk was up front, overlooking the front door, and its stock of books had grown so much since she’d become the librarian that they’d added more shelves in the back. When another shot sounded, closer this time, she froze. Her soft brown eyes flicked to the window, and then to white-haired Mrs. Wells, one of the two other people in the library that afternoon. “Wha-what’s that?” she asked, frustrated that, in her fear, her stutter had returned.

Mrs. Wells turned from the bookcase she was browsing. “Those Nelson boys—it’s got to be!” A no-nonsense widow and one of the oldest people in town, she knew everybody from three counties around. “Saw them this morning going into the saloon, forcing the owner to start serving—that early!”

“Oh! I’ve heard of them,” Mary said anxiously.

“They’re trouble when they get full of whiskey. They’re trouble without the whiskey! No telling what they’ll do. Lock the doors, Mary. We don’t want them barging in here.”

Mary ran and turned the key in the library’s door. In her hurry, a strand of her light brown hair sprang free from the neat bun at her neck.

Bobby, Mrs. Well’s fourteen-year-old godson who was the only other person in the library that day, peeked his blanched face around a set of selves. He was a gawky young man with a slender build and short red hair that stuck out in every direction. He was an anxious boy and spent most of his time with a nose stuck in a book, rather than outside with boys his own age. “Who are they?”

“They’re the plague of this area, town, and ranches both,” Mrs. Wells said. “Every so often, they run wild—get drunk, attack people, steal cattle, and burn buildings. The last time they showed up in Willow Creek was almost two years ago.”

Mary remembered. Her father, the town’s doctor, had been left treating a dozen people, for black eyes, broken bones, and bullet wounds—and also from burns gained fighting the fires the Nelsons had set, to make sure the entire town didn’t burn. The sheriff and other men of the town had ridden out to chase the Nelsons, as they had on earlier occasions, but they’d never been able to catch them.

The hoofbeats pulled up in front of the library. Mary could hear the drunken, jeering voices, and the clops of the horses turning in circles.

“What do they want?” Bobby quavered.

Mrs. Wells made a disgusted noise. “To amuse themselves by hurting other people, I’d guess.”

A bullet blasted through a pane of the library’s front window, shards of glass exploding across the room, and all three jerked away. The sound made her ears ring and Mary’s heart began slamming in her chest. “Let’s get behind those shelves,” she said, and she and Mrs. Wells moved behind the books with Bobby.

She crouched down, listening to the shots and drunken laughter in front of the library, wishing her father was there. He always knew what to do, and he could do it with calm purpose.

Mary’s mother died when she was two, so her father was the only person she had in the world. But he was brave and capable, whether he was called to take care of a toddler or treat terribly injured men. More than that, as a doctor, he was someone who could make things better, if possible. He’d tried to teach her to depend on God for everything, but Mary couldn’t help depending first of all on her strong, capable father.

Now, she found herself crouched down, saying in a whisper, “The Lord is my light and my salvation—whom shall I fear?”

A bullet banged into the outer wall of the library, followed by a burst of drunken laughter. There was a noise at the door, the knob clicking back and forth.

Fear clutched at Mary’s chest. What would she do if they were able to burst in? She was breathing hard now. She glanced at the others. Mrs. Wells looked frightened but grimly determined. Bobby was openly shaking with fear.

The man was banging at the door, rattling the knob, calling, “Open up! I wanna get a book!” The others hooted and laughed. The pounding got more insistent, alternating with jerking the knob and violently rattling the door back and forth in its frame. “Open up! You’re making me mad now, and you don’t want me to be mad when I get in there!”

Mary found herself repeating the line, “Whom shall I fear? Whom shall I fear?” But she knew all too well whom she feared. She blinked and shook her head trying to clear away that fear. She had to think clearly now.

A crash bowed the door slightly inward. Are they throwing themselves at it? she wondered. They’d stopped any pretense of friendly intentions now, screaming out threats and profanities. Mary squeezed her eyes shut and crossed her arms tightly, hugging herself. How long would it be before the frame shattered? More gunfire blasted, bullets striking the outside of the library and shattering another window. The sunlight glinted off the glass, making it sparkle brilliantly. Mary was grateful the windows were too high up for them to climb through.

“There’s no back door. We don’t have a back door,” Bobby whimpered. They were trapped.

“You hush now!” Mrs. Wells snapped, lifting her chin. Mary marveled at her bravery, remembering that she’d lived through an actual war some years before.

Other guns began blasting, farther down the street, and from other directions.

“That’s our people, now, coming to stop them,” Mrs. Wells said with satisfaction.

“Come on!” a slurred voice cried outside. “We got to get out of here!”

“Moment… Leavin’ them a little present!” someone else sneered. “Now, let’s get!”

The hoofbeats pounded up the street as the pursuers drew near, gaining on them.

Mary, Mrs. Wells, and Bobby held their positions behind the shelves. As the hoofbeats faded, Mary peeked out. The door was still on its hinges. Bobby pushed past her, but Mary put her hand on his arm. “Wait. It’s not safe yet.”

The pursuers passed the library and kept on after the Nelsons. Up the street, a storm of gunfire broke out, along with shouts, thuds, and then screams. The terrible noise went on and on.

For a moment, there was a lull, and in that brief silence, Mary heard a crackling sound outside. The smell of smoke was drifting through the shot-out window pane.

“Drat!” Mrs. Wells cried in annoyance. “They’ve set us on fire!”

Mary saw the flames licking up from below the window, spreading, the smoke pouring in through the shattered pane thicker now, getting into their throats and making them cough.

“We’re going to have to go out,” Mrs. Wells said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Otherwise, we’ll burn to death.”

Mary tried to stay as calm as possible, despite her heart racing in her chest.

“We’ve got to go through the front door,” Mary said, regaining a little presence of mind. Bobby’s mouth dropped open. He clutched his hands in front of his heart in fear and made a strangled sound.

“Hush!” Mrs. Wells said, batting his hands down. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

Mary unlocked the door and cracked it open. The flames were already licking at the frame, and she felt their heat on her face. Crouched down, skirts gathered tightly in their hands, they shot out, Mrs. Wells moving in a jerky bounce on her stiff old legs.

They stayed low and close to the building, sneaking around the corner. As soon as they got into the side street, Bobby dashed away at top speed, without a second glance back. Mary and Mrs. Wells ran until they got to the feed store, where they took shelter inside, away from the battle they could hear raging, just a little way away.

***

Eventually, the guns fell silent. Mrs. Wells stood up from the bench at the front of the store, her knees popping. “I’m going to check on my daughter’s family.” She glanced at Mary. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Yes, I’ll be fine. Please go check on your family.”

Mrs. Wells thanked her and hurried out.

When Mary walked out, she found the streets still in chaos. Women were dragging their crying children by the arms toward their homes. Acrid black smoke poisoned the air and made her eyes water. An entire cluster of buildings was on fire, and a bucket line of people had formed, frantically trying to keep it from spreading. Mary made a move to join it, but they already had enough people. In any case, it was too late to save her beloved library.

The dry paper of the books had caught easily and it was burning fiercely, the heat from the fire radiating on all sides. Every last book the library gathered, every last volume she’d convinced someone to donate—they were all being destroyed before her eyes. It wasn’t just two years of hard work and the small salary she’d had that were shriveling and crumbling in the flames. It was a part of herself. A raw, lonely feeling took hold of her.

Pushing her hair out of her soot-stained face, Mary moved up the street, looking for her father. Two bodies lay near the library, and more littered the street further up at the scene of the gunfight. She quickened her pace and looked away, feeling her heart clench in her chest. Her father would be taking care of the injured, as always.

As she drew near, she saw men and women carrying the dead and wounded into a nearby saloon.

“Reverend!” she called, catching sight of Clarence Blanchard, the minister of their church. The elderly reverend was trying to hoist a man, with his head sagging forward and a nasty wound in his chest, to safety. His frail frame struggled under the weight as he lifted the man under the shoulders while someone else took his feet. “Have you seen my father?” she asked him.

“Mary!” His voice was weary and he seemed short of breath as he waddled backward with the man toward the saloon. “You’d better go home. You don’t want to see… what they’ve done…”

“I want to help,” she insisted, following as he passed through the saloon doors. “I’m not going to leave while my father’s still here. I’m sure he’ll have something for me to do to help. Have you seen—” But as they laid the man down on the saloon floor, in a row with the others, his head flopped back, and she saw her father’s face.

“No!” she cried out, collapsing to her knees beside him.

***

For several long minutes, she stayed there, clutching her father’s limp hand, her stomach twisting with the hope that he would open his eyes and wake up. Please. Please, God, let him be alive! She put a hand on his chest, but couldn’t feel a beat.

The Reverend stood beside her for a minute, guilt written all over his face, as if he should’ve been able to save him. “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

She’d done everything she could to be brave, but now she felt her strength collapse. She’d been afraid for him before when he’d put himself into risky situations, yet she’d always had a rock-bottom faith where he was concerned—faith in his medical skills, faith in his strength and righteousness, faith that God would protect him for being so brave and selfless. Didn’t God need good servants like him to help in this fallen world?

“Mary, why don’t you go home?” The reverend gently laid his hand on her shoulder. “We’ll carry him up to the house after we’ve gotten everyone in from the street.”

Mary shook her head. She stayed, holding her father’s hand, struck dumb with devastation.

Then, she heard a ragged, hoarse breath being drawn and her father’s eyes fluttered open. “Mary…” he croaked.

“Papa!” she cried out. Her heart soared and tears sprang to her eyes. He wasn’t gone! He was still there with her. God had heard her pleas.

His breathing was harsh and labored. “Mary… Is there… water?”

“I’ll get some!” She raised to her knees and looked around wildly. But she wouldn’t leave him. “Reverend!” she called. “He’s alive! My father is alive!”

“He is?” The reverend stopped, his face lightening.

“Please, can someone get him some water?”

The reverend nodded and ran off.

Mary cradled her father’s head in her lap, listening to his hoarse breaths, glad for each one. Please, God, help him now! “You’re going to be all right,” she cooed, as if she were comforting a baby. “You’ll be fine. Just hold on, Papa!” But blood was seeping out of his shoulder, staining her dress.

The reverend thrust a bucket of water at them. Her father tried to raise his head, then dropped it back down. Mary put the bucket down by his head, then scooped water out with her hand to pour into his mouth. Save him, God! He tipped his head slightly up and drank it. But the effort wore him out and he lay back down, eyes closed.

“Papa! Don’t give up! Papa, I need you! You’ll be all right!” She tightened her arms around him.

“Mary… daughter…” He was breathing harder and faster now. “Mary, I…”

He let a long breath out. Mary waited, frantically for his next words, but he didn’t draw the next breath in again.

Chapter One

Clearwater Ranch, Mississippi

1883

Around once a week, the nightmare came to torment Earnest again. This time, it was as bad as ever, but it ended differently.

In the dream, the fire flared up in the barn. The dry hay caught so fast that by the time Earnest saw the smoke and ran to it, the whole loft and back area were blazing. He ran in, but the intense heat stopped him. His brother Jordy was in there somewhere, he knew it.

Their parents froze to death years before in a freak snowstorm, when they’d gone out to break the ice on the pond so that the cattle could get water. After their deaths, Earnest, at age eighteen, needed to take on the responsibility of running the ranch and raising his ten-year-old brother.

He’d been anxious and overprotective of Jordy, afraid that he might get injured on the ranch or, later, that he’d fall in with the bad company in town. At sixteen, Jordy had taken up smoking, but Earnest didn’t like the waste of money or the new friends who encouraged Jordy to smoke. He’d known he was being harsh, but he still shouted at his little brother to stop smoking.

After that, Jordy hid in the barn to smoke. Earnest knew it, but if he’d brought it up, Jordy would glare at him with his strange, rebellious, turquoise-blue eyes. But Earnest was dog-tired at the end of each day, too tired to raise an argument, so he pretended he didn’t know about it.

He didn’t warn Jordy that the barn was a bad place for flames or glowing embers. He didn’t insist that Jordy stop smoking, nor did he give in and let his brother smoke out in the open elsewhere.

But when the barn caught fire and burned, with Jordy trapped inside, he had a horrified idea of how it might have happened.

It’s my fault, he thought, in a swell of guilt. I could’ve prevented it. I didn’t protect my brother.

In the dream, he relived how he tried to get to his brother, but the flames became a solid wall, singeing his eyelashes and driving him back. He tried to find a way in, a place where he could sneak through, but the fire simply advanced farther and farther, driving him out.

“Jordy!” he called, but all he heard was the roar of the flames and the beams of the loft beginning to crack and break. He felt the heat searing off the hair on his arms. Then the loft beams fell, crushing his left leg and trapping him. Earnest thrashed, trying to fight his way up to get to Jordy.

This time, however, the dream was different, he heard Jordy’s voice. It was high-pitched and grief-stricken, like the wail of a baby, and it tore Earnest’s heart. He thrashed harder to twist out from under the beam.

The baby kept crying and crying, and suddenly the barn disappeared, and Earnest was running all over the ranch, frantically looking for the baby.

His heart raced as he searched through the fields and the pastures, calling out for the child, his voice echoing through the wide expanse. Panic gripped him with each passing moment, and his desperation grew.

The vastness of the ranch seemed to stretch on endlessly, mocking his frantic efforts to find the baby. He stumbled over a large branch and fell down a small ravine, his body cartwheeling end over end.

Then, with a start, he woke to find himself in bed, thrashing in the blankets.

The baby was still crying.

He shook the sleep out of his brain to come back to the present: It was dawn. Jordy was still dead. He, Earnest, was alive because Frank, his father’s ranch hand, had come racing into the barn in time to pull him from under the beam to safety. And a real baby was crying somewhere.

Abruptly, Earnest sat up and ran a hand through his dark, curly hair. He’d left the window open overnight, now that the weather was warming, and the crying was coming from outside. A baby? Crying? I haven’t heard that here since… since Jordy was a baby.

He jumped up and galloped awkwardly downstairs, wincing at the pain in his bad leg. It had never fully healed, remaining a constant reminder of how he’d failed to save his brother. When he threw open the door, he saw that the crying was coming from a basket on the front step.

Gingerly, Earnest swiveled it around to see a red, squalling face swaddled in a pile of blankets.

He could barely stand the wild sound of the baby’s crying. Before he’d even thought about it, he’d scooped the child up and was gently bouncing them in his arms. The baby, enraged at this stranger lifting it, had glared at him with rebellious turquoise eyes, then squalled even harder.

Earnest froze: The baby’s eyes were the same color as Jordy’s. Even the indignation of the glare was the same. I’m losing my mind, Earnest thought.

Rocking the baby in his arms, he looked around but saw no one.

He held the baby in one arm and brought them and the basket inside. As he set the basket down, he noticed a note inside. It said, “I know you are a kind man. Please take care of Alexander, because I can’t.”

Earnest opened his eyes wide. Take care of this baby? He wouldn’t even know where to start. the baby was still crying, tears streaming down his chubby cheeks.

“Shh! All right, baby—Alexander. Everything’s all right. Shh! What do I do now?”

He kept bouncing the baby and shushing him while he looked into the icebox. A pitcher of milk sat on top of the large ice block, and he took it out. Taking a clean cloth from the shelf, he dipped it into the milk and put it in the baby’s mouth. Greedily, Alexander took it and began sucking.

“What am I supposed to do with you?” Earnest asked.

***

You couldn’t just put a baby down somewhere and go off and do your chores. Earnest tried it, and Alexander had objected loudly. When Frank, his longest-standing ranch hand who’d been with the family since Earnest was a little boy, came in for his breakfast, Earnest asked him if he could take care of that morning’s work alone. Frank was a stoic, simple man who took it in his stride, barely even asking questions about the sudden arrival of an infant, something that Earnest was grateful for.

He vaguely remembered Jordy’s arrival in the family when Earnest was eight years old. the main thing he could recall was how his mother had let him hold his baby brother as long as he carefully kept a hand supporting the tiny head. The need to support the head was probably the only thing he knew about babies. He was doing it now, but surely there were a thousand other things he didn’t know. The little babe seemed so fragile, and he felt so large and clumsy.

It made him nervous. He was a poor choice to take care of a baby, having failed to take care of his own brother—even when his brother had been old enough to dress and feed himself.

“No, I can’t do this,” he said to himself out loud. “Not a baby. I might hurt it somehow.” But then he looked down at the turquoise eyes that were staring up at him with trust. “Stop. Don’t ask me to do this. I’ve got work to do to run this ranch. Somebody’s crazy to trust me to do this, to think I’d be a good person to care for you. I can’t. I just can’t, that’s all.”

Grabbing the basket, he almost fled from the house. He securely tucked the baby in and harnessed the horses to the wagon. Then, he put the basket under the wagon’s bench and headed out, not to the town near his ranch but to Willow Creek, the larger town some distance away where Reverend Blanchard lived, ministering to the churches in both Willow Creek and Clearwater. He drove at half the speed he normally did, afraid of endangering the baby, fighting the anxiety that was buzzing through his body and urging him to go faster and get it over with.