Prologue

Bitterroot Valley, Montana Territory, December 24, 1870

Sixteen-year-old Bess Whitaker sat at the small table by the crackling fire. The light outside had begun to dim to a soft lavender, and the flickering flames cast long, dancing shadows across the walls of the small cabin nestled in the Montana valley. Smiling to herself, she grabbed some string to tie a bow on Ethan’s gift, humming her favorite tune, a lullaby her mother had sung to her.

“Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly, lavender’s green. When you are king, dilly dilly, I shall be queen.”

She flipped a lock of honey-colored curls over her shoulder and wiggled her slim, petite body to a more comfortable position on the hard surface of the chair. More than once, she’d wished they were padded.

“I shouldn’t be humming a lullaby,” she chirped as she clipped the string with her sewing scissors. “I should be singing carols. It’s Christmas Eve, after all.”

She launched into a loud rendition of “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,” her clear, happy voice filling the cabin with as much joy as she could muster. Her body swayed with the song.

Her busy hands moved methodically as she continued to wrap her small stack of presents. The wrapping wasn’t fancy. In fact, it was downright dull. On her last foray into town, she’d asked the butcher for an extra bit of brown paper packaging. He’d been happy to give it to her in exchange for a tiny pair of knitted mittens for his daughter.

“Perhaps a few sprigs of evergreen will liven the present up,” she mused, tapping her lip. “Or berries…”

She went back to singing, this time “Deck the Halls.” Her fingers moved with precision.

As she tied the last ribbon, her gaze drifted toward the window. Most of the light was gone, the last rays of fading light slipping behind the mountain range far to the west.

The happy tune died in her throat as her mind once again pulled her older brother, Ethan, into her thoughts.

“Where is he?” She pulled the edge of the curtain to see better, peering into the gloom. “He should have been home by now. He promised.”

She couldn’t stop the worry from tapping into her mind. Even as her fingers continued their task, her gaze kept returning to the window. Her heart thumped a little bit harder each time she saw her own reflection in the wavy glass, her brow furrowed, her brown eyes filled with worry.

Ethan was her only family, twelve years older than Bess. He’d taken on the responsibility for her guardianship when their parents died of a typhoid fever outbreak ten years before.

Ethan had once had dreams of traveling west to California, but after the outbreak, he’d given up those dreams for his little sister and stayed on their small farm in Montana. Because he wanted to provide for her and ensure her future, he’d chosen an occupation that paid well and didn’t rely on nature to be profitable. He’d become a bounty hunter.

On the Montana frontier, lawlessness ran rampant. Authorities offered good pay for anyone willing to put their life on the line. Ethan was forever chasing after dangerous outlaws and escaped felons throughout the Montana Territory, and Bess was forever worrying. She wished with all her might that Ethan didn’t feel the need to work such a dangerous occupation, even as she knew he did it all for her.

As her fingers stilled on the final package, she folded her hands and closed her eyes.

It had been weeks since she had last seen him, and he’d made her a promise to be home by Christmas Eve. His promises were more valuable than gold because he’d never broken one. Each one, no matter how small, echoed in her memory like the notes of the lullaby she would never forget. Even now, as worry painfully speared through her heart, she clutched that promise like God’s own truth.

Her lips trembled as she began to pray.

“Dear Lord, Ethan promised he’d be home tonight.” She squeezed her hands tighter, trying to calm her rapid breathing. “Ethan’s never broken a promise. Never. Not once. He’s the most perfect brother a girl could ask for. Please keep him safe. Please bring him home to me today, tomorrow, the next day… Any day will do.”

As the clock on the mantel chipped away at time, Bess pulled the chicken she’d roasted from the cast-iron stove and placed it in the warmer. She mashed the potatoes she’d cooked earlier, adding a bit of butter she’d churned that morning. Once done, she pushed the bowl into the warmer as well.

After cleaning her hands, she settled back at the table.

“I guess I’ll have to decorate the tree without him this year,” she murmured, and even she could hear the misery in her voice. “He’s going to be exhausted and cold when he gets here.”

Resolved to enjoy her Christmas Eve and decorate for her brother’s arrival, she huffed out a loud breath and began to sing “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” because it always made her happy.

It didn’t seem to work this year. The words flowed from her, but her heart remained heavy. Still, she continued to sing as she strung the popped corn on the thread and then grabbed another piece. As she pushed the needle through the berries to string them, she kept her eyes on the window.

The sky outside became washed in a deep shade of purple, then black. Snow twirled beyond the window, flickering near the light, radiating through the pane like moths to flames. The flakes fell lightly at first, but soon, as the wind increased in intensity and began to howl, tiny pitter-patters of ice popped against the glass. Thick, heavy flakes began to stick to the windowpane as ice crystals beat a rhythm against the roof.

“He must have been detained. Perhaps the weather is even worse in the west…”

With a heavy sigh, Bess moved toward the stove and pulled everything from the warmer.

As she set the food on the table, she glanced at the mostly bare evergreen standing proudly in the corner of the room. She’d cut it herself and dragged it into the cabin. It held a few precious ornaments, some her mother had brought to Montana from back east and a few she and Ethan had made over the years. One was a tiny wooden dog Ethan had carved for her because she’d begged her parents for a pet.

She smiled at the memory of unwrapping her gift and naming the little wooden creature Cinnamon, after her favorite flavor.

The small feast she had prepared sat on the table, untouched. A roast chicken, potatoes, and the apple pie—Ethan’s favorite—she had baked that morning. The chicken smelled delicious, but the scent of the food mingling with the pine aroma from the Christmas tree made Bess’s thoughts turn nostalgic.

Her stomach began to roil with nerves.

She cupped her hands against the glass and then pulled back, staring at her reflection. Her brown eyes looked sad, broken-hearted. Like those of a disappointed toddler.

She jerked back, suddenly angry at herself for being such a child.

“A man cannot always keep a promise when the outcome is dependent on the weather in Montana. Don’t be such a silly little girl.” She squeezed her fists against her apron. “He’ll get here when he gets here, and that’s that. Pouting won’t make him appear out of thin air.”

And yet, though she knew that, she still glanced once more out the window. She rolled her eyes at her own foolishness.

She twisted back toward the table and froze. She’d heard a sound.

Heavy boots plodded up the steps, crunching through the fresh snow on the front porch.

Her heart skipped a beat and then leaped in joy. A grin enveloped her face as she spun around. “Ethan!” She lifted her skirts and raced to the door. She yanked it open, ignoring the cold crystals of icy snow and the wailing wind. All she wanted was to throw herself into her brother’s arms.

Christmas is saved!

She was ready to leap when she saw…

It wasn’t Ethan.

The sheriff stood solemnly in the spill of light from the doorway, his hat in his hands, his face grave. Bess’s smile faltered as she took in the sight of him, a lump forming in her throat. She had to force his name from her mouth.

“Sheriff Matthews?” Her voice was barely a whisper. Fear began creeping into her heart, stealthily at first as she tried to make sense of this visit. When he looked at her with a kindness she had never seen before, that fear pounced like a mountain lion. It consumed her and stabbed with such viciousness that she almost buckled.

His fist clutched at his hat, his fingers kneading the brim. “Bess…” His voice was thick with emotion. “I’m so sorry.”

She shook her head, honey curls spilling over her shoulder. “No…”

“It’s Ethan, honey…”

“No, no…” She took several steps back and pressed her lips together so hard she should have cracked her teeth. She had to hold in the scream building in her chest. It was a raw, primal scream, and if it got out into the world, she would surely die from the sound alone.

Go away, she thought. Go away and don’t come back. As long as you don’t say it, there’s always hope. Please, God …

The sheriff moved toward her, his tall, slender shadow following her like death.

“Ethan’s gone, Beth. He was killed by a bandit on the road into town. Jim Gibson was out making deliveries and saw the whole thing. Jim brought him to the doctor.”

Hot tears spilled from her eyes.

“But it was too late, honey… Doc said the bullet… Well, Ethan didn’t suffer.”

Each word stabbed her in the heart. Her heart filled with holes, and she could feel her life leaking out of those wounds. How many wounds did that bandit inflict on Ethan?

He was almost home…

She couldn’t get her breath. It stuttered in her chest like a defective steam engine.

Would she ever be able to draw a breath? Ethan would never breathe again.

“It was quick, and he didn’t suffer,” Sheriff Matthews repeated. Then he sighed. “So there’s that at least…”

When her knees buckled, he grabbed her arm to steady her. The world seemed to be spinning, and she was trying desperately to understand what he was saying.

Ethan didn’t suffer? She wondered at the thought that any of this could happen without suffering. I am suffering. I am suffering more than I’ve ever suffered.

“Breathe, Bess. Come on, honey. Take a breath.”

She shook her head. If Ethan is dead, then…

Her view of the cabin became a tunnel, blackness folding the walls and drawing them closer to one another until there was nothing but a tiny pinprick of light from the fireplace.

She gasped as her breath caught, and then she drew in several long, starving breaths. She shook her head again.

“No,” she whispered, “you’re wrong.” Tears welled up in her eyes again and swept down her cheeks like spring runoff. “What you’re saying can’t be true. He promised… He promised he’d be home for Christmas Eve.”

And he was almost here…

The sheriff tried to lead her to a chair, but she jerked her arm away and backed up. She only stopped moving when she bumped into the stove. The tears were streaming so fast that the form of the sheriff was nothing but a watery blur holding a hat.

“I’m so sorry, Bess,” he said again, his voice gentle but firm with the truth of the matter.

Ethan is dead. Ethan won’t be home tonight—or any night. He’ll never make another promise again, not to me, not to anyone.

“He’ll never see California,” she whispered, her voice quavering.

Something in her broke and snapped painfully.

She wailed as her legs gave way, and she slid to the floor. Her whole body trembled violently with grief.

Sheriff Matthews kneeled beside her, saying soft words, making promises that she would be okay.

“Everyone in town will be here for you, Bess. You won’t have to go through this alone.”

Of course I will. My brother is dead. I’m alone now, forever and always.

She barely noticed his presence, barely felt the arm that curled around her in protection and comfort.

All she could think about was Ethan, her big brother, the only family she had. And now he was gone. She was all alone. I’m an orphan.

As the sheriff promised, people began to arrive at the cabin.

The snow continued to beat at the windows and drift into the cabin when the door opened and closed, opened and closed.

The world became shrouded in a cold, white blanket. The presents, so lovingly chosen and wrapped, lay forgotten on the floor beneath the tree.

The small feast sat forgotten on the table, untouched by Bess and those who came to mourn with her. It was soon joined by more dishes, more loaves of bread, more jars of canned food.

Someone wrapped a shawl around her and moved her to the rocker where she’d once sat in her mother’s lap, and then Ethan’s lap, and listened to them read stories. She realized it was Sarah Evans, the pastor’s wife, and she tried to thank her, but no words came.

She stared into the fire, her heart shattered into a million pieces. Her world would never be the same again.

Chapter One

Cascade Village, Montana Territory, Early November 1880

The church bell began to ring out, signaling that services would begin in half an hour.

The sonorous toll resonated through the small chapel. Its deep knell imbued the sanctuary with enough power and energy that Bess felt as if God’s very presence moved through her heart and soul.

Bess stilled and let that power flow through her. This rich, glorious communion between her and the Holy Spirit was her favorite moment of the week.

As the last bong faded away, Bess smiled and returned to her task. Her hands moved quickly as she nestled the hymnals back in the cradles after giving each a quick dusting before the Sunday service.

Pastor Henry Evans returned to the sanctuary after he’d completed the call to worship. He and his wife, Sarah, moved around the church, their soft murmurs of conversation coming to Bess and giving her a sense of peace. She always found peace in preparing for the Lord’s day.

“I wish it would warm up in here,” Bess muttered, tucking her shawl a bit tighter around her neck.

Sarah Evans, a pretty woman in her fifties, gave Bess a smile as she smoothed the altar cloth. “It’s our first fire of the season. The stove just needs a few more minutes to remember its job.”

They’d stoked the cast-iron potbellied stove in the church, and Bess had noticed it warming, but it wasn’t working quite fast enough for her. Bess hated the cold.

The damp chill in the air only served to remind her that winter was right around the corner and, with winter, came Christmas. She never looked forward to Christmas.

The atmosphere of the church, with its well-worn wooden floors and the colorful prisms of comforting light coming through the stained-glass windows on either side of the chapel, was a stark contrast to the chill that had settled in Bess’s heart over the years.

It had been ten years since Ethan had been taken from her, ten years since Sheriff Matthews had come to the doorstep of the Whitaker homestead with the worst news she could imagine. Henry and Sarah arrived almost immediately after Sheriff Matthews and had been there for Bess every day since then.

After Ethan’s funeral, the pastor and Sarah discussed Bess’s future with her. They were both very reluctant to leave a sixteen-year-old girl alone on an isolated homestead. After considerable thought, Bess agreed to come into the village and stay with them until she could come to grips with what had happened to Ethan and decide what she might want to do.

Pastor Evans arranged for the Whitaker homestead to be put into a trust. When she turned eighteen, it would be her inheritance, and then she could make a choice about her future.

Henry and Sarah had taken her into their home and treated her like a daughter. Though Bess had been nearly inconsolable at first, the couple’s kindness had been a soothing balm to her grief. In many ways, they had become her new family.

Eighteen had come and gone. Her property still sat in the Bitterroot Valley, waiting for her to return. She had no desire to see it again, so she remained with the Evanses. What she would do with her property was still in question, but she was fairly certain she wouldn’t be returning.

As grateful as Bess was for their generosity, her heart was filled with a restlessness she didn’t understand. It had been so easy to fall into a pattern with the pastor and his wife in the parsonage, but she knew she needed more.

But more of what? She had no idea, and she felt guilty for not knowing how she wanted to spend her life. Twenty-six years old, and she was no one’s daughter, no one’s sister, no one’s wife or mother…

Sarah cleared her throat daintily, and, lost in thought, Bess startled at the sound.

“I hope those are happy thoughts,” Sarah said with a laugh. “They were certainly very deep ones.”

“No thoughts at all, really,” Bess confessed. She shrugged. “Just communing with God.”

“Indeed,” Sarah said, chuckling. “Perhaps you’ve been thinking of Jim Gibson?”

Bess drew back and frowned. “Why would I be thinking of Jim Gibson?” Yet, that niggling sensation settled at the base of her spine, that familiar feeling of “not again.”

It always happens around this time every year.

At first, after Ethan’s death, the Evanses had allowed Bess a certain amount of solitude. They knew her grief ran deep, and her withdrawal was expected. She’d been through so much loss in her young life.

Bess’s reprieve on thinking of her future had lasted a year, and then the couple had begun to encourage her to think of marriage.

“Jim has been coming around the parsonage quite a bit lately,” Sarah said it lightly, but as the woman fussed unnecessarily with the altar cloth, Bess saw the sly look that drifted over her face.

Bess waved her hand, dismissing Sarah’s thoughts. “He’s been picking up and delivering meals to our shut-in members. Did you know that Percy Chapman threw out his hip again?”

“I did,” Sarah said solemnly.

“I swear that man will never learn that he can’t be making repairs on his roof like he did twenty years ago. The man is seventy-six years old.”

Sarah gave her a pointed look. “You’re changing the subject.”

“And what was the subject again?” Bess asked sweetly, though, of course, she knew exactly what Sarah was talking about. She just wanted to avoid it for the day. Sunday was for communing with God, not thinking about Jim Gibson being sweet on her.

“The subject is that poor man filled with wistful longing every time he comes around. He barely notices anyone else in the room, and if he got any more lovesick, I’d have to call Doc Walker.”

Across the aisle, Henry chuckled. “Talking about Jim Gibson, are we?”

“Yes, dear,” Sarah said. “We’re talking about Jim.”

Bess furiously dusted another hymnal and then slammed it into the cradle. Her mouth dropped open when she realized what she’d done.

Sorry, God. I didn’t mean to do that. She gave the hymnal a little pat in apology.

“Nice man.” Henry nodded. “He’d make a fine husband for someone. Hard to believe Jim hasn’t been snatched up yet.”

Bess froze, and her gaze ticked between them. They’re both bringing it up today? No, no, no. I can’t handle it when they both do this.

Henry gave her a smile. “As is said in Ecclesiastes, ‘Two are better than one; because they have a good reward for their labor. For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow: but woe to him that is alone when he falleth; for he hath not another to help him up. Again, if two lie together, then they have heat: but how can one be warm alone?’ That heat sure would come in handy today. It’s chilly in here.” He rubbed his hands together.

Bess stared at him in horror and then rubbed her temples, grimacing. “I truly do not want to talk about Jim Gibson right now.”

The pastor spread his hands. “But lots of young ladies would—”

“Henry,” Sarah said softly.

The husband gave his wife an innocent glance. “Yes, dear?”

Sarah gestured toward Bess with her chin. The woman didn’t have a subtle bone in her body. “You’ll spook her,” she whispered.

“Right… of course.” He shuffled some papers. “I’ll just… prepare my sermon. Ignore me. What would an old married man know about true love?” He gave his wife a wink and dropped his head in contrition, but he couldn’t stop the snicker.

Bess rolled her eyes. “Stop it, you two.” She giggled. “Can we not have a peaceful Sunday?” She mock-glared at Sarah. “For once?”

Sarah folded her hands and stared back, the picture of innocence. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Bess strode to the front of the church to tuck away the dust cloth. Her boots clomped on the wooden floors with more force than her petite frame should have been able to muster, but she felt a spark of irritation. She understood they only wanted what was best for her, but who was to say marriage was best? Just because it was what young women traditionally did was not a reason to rush into a marriage with just anyone.

Jim Gibson is a fine man, a pious man, a good-looking one, too, but—

“Do you have objections to marriage in general… or is it Jim?” Sarah asked.

Bess whirled around, skirts flying. She lifted her arms, thinking to protest, and then realized she had nothing to say. Her arms dropped to her sides with a loud slap.

“I just don’t think marriage is… for me.”

She didn’t know how to explain to Sarah that she feared falling in love. She feared loving someone, really giving them her heart and soul, and then losing them.

It took her years to repair her soul after her parents died.

It took her years to mend the shattered pieces of her heart after Ethan died.

Even now, ten years later, the cracks and chinks in her heart, which she’d cobbled back together with the help of the pastor and his wife, pulsed with fear when she thought of loving someone.

“It has nothing to do with Jim,” she said, wishing she could say more, but she couldn’t admit she was as broken as she was, not even to them. “Jim’s been doing a few chores that needed done, and I’m sorry if I’ve given him hope I can’t possibly fulfill.”

“Then you should tell him that,” Sarah said, firmly but not unkindly.

“It’s just that the church deserves the best, and we all know Jim takes his work as seriously as I take my church duties and responsibilities. I’ve worked for the pastor for almost ten years, and you should know I only want what’s best.”

“I do know that, Bess.” Sarah gave her a smile. “We couldn’t function without you, but…”

Sarah glanced down, her hands clasped together on the cloth, still and respectful. So much like Sarah herself, when she wasn’t in a teasing mood.

“But what?”

“Don’t you want more out of life than”—Sarah waved her hand to encompass the entire church—“this?”

“Than church?” Bess’s brow furrowed, and then she brightened. “I love church more than anything. I love God more than anything. I can’t imagine a place where I would feel more contentment or feel safer, and I thank you for that, Sarah, for bringing me here to share your lives.”

Henry’s voice caught Bess’s attention. “We just want you to be happy.”

Bess nodded and gave them each a smile. “I know you do, but unless you want me gone, I’m happy to be here, working for the church, helping you both in anything you need.” She drew in a deep sigh. “But I will talk to Jim. I need to let him know I have no intention of marrying.”

She saw the look that passed between Sarah and her husband. Disappointment. Perhaps a bit of sorrow.

They couldn’t understand that she could never risk trying to find what they had between them.

“The congregation will be arriving soon,” the pastor said, shuffling his papers into a pile.

Within moments, they were welcoming the members of their church into the chapel. As the community of Cascade Village settled into the pews, Bess welcomed each one with a hug or a handshake. Every person in the village had, at one time or another, offered her encouragement or support or a helping hand in overcoming her sorrow.

Pastor Evans delivered a powerful sermon on the strength of God’s love, of finding hope in the face of adversity and finding a purpose in life.

“Our faith gives us power,” the pastor said passionately, leaning forward over the podium. “Our faith is a source of comfort when troubles befall us. It becomes our light in the darkness to guide us through hardship. Our faith binds us to one another in ways that gives us all a sense of hope and love and community.”

So many of the congregation sighed or smiled or nodded. Bess noticed mothers taking the hand of their child, husbands taking the hand of their wife. She looked at her own hands folded, solitary, in her lap.

No hand to hold, but hands can be lost…

She squeezed her hands together.

“Our love of God is the source of our renewal each week as we come together in fellowship and prayer. Let us forget the hardships we endured in the past week. We’ve learned from them, and we’ve grown, but the time has come to let them go.”

He waved his hand as though pushing them into the air.

“Let us focus on the six days before us and make them strong, purposeful days. Let’s be determined and resolute. Let’s each find that sense of purpose that has eluded us.”

A sense of purpose… Is that what’s missing from my life? Was Sarah right? Is this, all of this, not enough for me?

“Faith can light the way and be the guiding force in our lives. Let God help you find your purpose, and you will find happiness.” Pastor Evans put aside his pages and folded his hands. “Let us pray.”

As the pastor intoned a prayer, Bess tried to concentrate, but she felt that fluttering anxiety begin to grow inside of her again. It always seemed to resurface around Christmas time, a reminder of what she had lost and what she wished she could allow into her life.

Now, as she sat on the wooden pew, wishing she had a cushion, that familiar sense of unease crept up on her again.

“Are you all right, dear?” Sarah whispered, noticing Bess was staring straight ahead when her head should be bowed.

Bess forced a slight smile and nodded. “Just a little tired, I guess.”

“You?” Sarah scoffed gently. “Never.” She squeezed Bess’s hand. “We’ll talk later.”